


Terrible Idea

by MountainRose, szzzt



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AIM has bad ideas, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Biting, Cockroaches, Consent, Difficulty Communicating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Tony, Established Relationship, Fear Agression, Feral Behavior, Feral Cuddles, Flashbacks, Food Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical consent and medical proxies, Mentions of Consent and Boundaries, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Panic Attack, Romping, Semiotic Difficulties, Thin Veneer of Plot, food hoarding, giant cockroaches, holy shit what's happened to Tony, nonverbal discussions of various kinds of consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 55,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainRose/pseuds/MountainRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/szzzt/pseuds/szzzt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Tony get captured by AIM. Steve can handle bad wine and worse monologuing, but when he gets back to the cell, Tony's not quite how he left him.</p><p>It doesn't slow them down much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to our lovely beta reader [synteis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/synteis)!
> 
>   * Ch1 is Teen at most, but we anticipate some Mature content later.
>   * We don't mean to diss Ayn Rand, but honestly. AIM would _love_ Ayn Rand.
> 


Tony's crammed into the smallest possible space, in the far corner, and he doesn't look around when the guards throw Steve back into the cell, or when Steve picks himself up and sticks his hands back through the slot in the door so the guards can take the manacles off. He's pretty sure he could work out how to break them if he just had five minutes to actually _look_ , and Tony wouldn't even need one, but the guards won't give him that time; they have some kind of electrical bolt gun pointed at him through the door.

They step away quickly once his hands are free and threaten him with the bolt gun. He doesn't pull his hands back right away --he wants to feel up the locking mechanism or at least the hatch that covers the slot-- but they don't take well to him lingering, and fire. The charge bolt hits him on the forearm and grounds on the metal hatch frame, laying a burn from wrist to elbow and sending him back into the cell with more force than a gunshot. He hits the stone with a grunt of pain, and curls around his arm, irritated at himself for fucking up and getting hurt in front of Tony.

It'd have been suspicious if they hadn't seen him trying to escape somehow, but _damn,_ it hurts. The hatch snicks closed. And he hasn't been gone that long, not that long, but Tony hasn't made a sound this whole time. He's still pressed tight into the corner.

They had sworn if he came quietly, they'd leave Tony alone, and in the interests of stalling Steve had taken their offer, secure in the knowledge that Tony's grudge would last longer than any marks they could leave on Steve. Which is still true --the burn will fade in a few minutes-- and in fact, the Scientist Supreme had done nothing more than give him a good meal: dry wine and diverting conversation, though the manacles had been a pain, and there was only so much Steve could say about Ayn Rand.  
  
"Hey," he says, "hey Tony," and reaches out a hand. Tony is still, though he's breathing, up until he touches his shoulder; then he twists, whole body uncoiling, and bites Steve's hand.  
  
Steve jerks back, loses his balance, falls on his backside and one elbow, and crab-walks backward when Tony snarls at him. There's a semicircle of white marks in the meat of his hand. The skin isn't broken, but Tony bit _hard_ , and there'll be bruises blooming under the skin in a few minutes.  
  
"Hey, hey! Shellhead," Steve says, raising his other hand, palm out in surrender. Tony tries to flatten himself into the wall and his snarl raises in pitch, eyes wide enough to see the whites in the almost darkness. Maybe it doesn't look like surrender to him. Steve puts his hands flat down on the floor and Tony likes that better.  
  
They stare at each other, Tony's teeth still showing.  
  
"So," Steve says, "they didn't leave you alone, did they." He sniffs and looks around; no sign of the struggle that Tony would certainly have put up if the guards came to break their bargain, but it smells weird in here. "Something in the air? You were fine when I left. Climbing the walls, sure, but fine. If I start feeling bitey, I suppose we'll know that it affects me too, huh?" Oh boy, another fact to learn about the serum. He can't wait. The vague ache in his wrists from the manacles has already faded, and Tony's teeth marks are flushing red to match the burn on his other arm. Steve tries a smile this time.  
  
Tony doesn't like it when he shows teeth --flinches away and curls his lip-- so Steve softens it as much as he can. He makes his eyes big and earnest, and struggles to keep his smile on his face in this hard, cold place. It smells bad in here now, like animals.

Tony’s breath hisses out from between his teeth when Steve lifts his hand, but it hurts where Tony bit, and Tony is his _friend_ and _afraid_ of him and that fucking hurts too. He rubs the ache against his cheek and tastes it to check that he isn’t bleeding, and the sound Tony makes is fear and _trapped-get-away._

Steve can’t stand it, the noise grates against something in his belly, so he gets to his feet and scrambles backwards so he’s not hemming Tony in. Too fast; Tony makes a wordless bark of startlement, and Steve can’t see his face anymore, it’s pressed into the close-worked stone like he's trying to merge with it. No matter where he goes, Steve is closing him in, even when he presses himself into the opposite corner. They’re in a dead end cul-de-sac locked in by steel and stone and guns; there’s nowhere to go that isn’t _trapped-get-away._ The stone is cold against his back and turns his sweaty undershirt clammy. It makes his stomach churn. He does not like cold.

The door, the lock is a problem. Tony is afraid of him, but Steve isn’t a threat; the door is, and wherever Tony's wits have gone there's nothing to conceal the fact that he's terrified.

Steve isn't worried about himself, even if it takes a while for Tony to let him near. That's all right; it took months, the first time. Steve is persistent, and Steve is _shield-protect._ Tony will see it, has to --it’s everything that Steve is-- he just has to show it, remind him.

But the door, the door won't go away that easily.

“Tony, Tony, don’t-- I’m not dangerous, Tony, look, I’ll guard from...steel-and-guns-- _AIM_ , I’ll protect you from them, won’t...let them take me again. Stay, and protect.” Words feel clumsy now, and he assumes it's the _weird-wrong-animal_ smell getting through the serum. He’s not sure if being unable to talk is the same as not understanding --Tony shows no sign of understanding his words at all-- but he’s using fear-anger-growl sounds, so maybe he still understands intonation.

Or something even more basic. Steve shuffles out of his corner enough to put his back to Tony, big, vulnerable, back-of-neck; if Tony wants to bite him some more, he decides that is fine. He decides he won’t be hurt. But he checks a couple times from the corner of his eye; Tony's looking at him again and that isn't aggression, that is _shock_ and _affront_ at being ignored, which is almost funny. Some things are the same no matter what. Steve sniffs -- _ignoring you_ \-- and scoots deliberately a little closer, keeping his back to Tony and not looking. Then he checks through his pockets.

Nothing, nothing, a neatly-folded clean paper napkin, another napkin wrapped around two slices of buttered bread, rather squished, nothing, ah. A tiny spoon. The guards had watched him take the napkins and the bread but they hadn't seen him palm the spoon, which had come with a tiny demitasse saucer and cup. He had sipped the espresso regretfully, then whoops dropped the whole shebang, smash, so sorry, so clumsy with manacles, and they had glared as they gathered up every shard. Tony would have glared too. Wasting espresso.

Small noises behind him; Tony has moved from his corner, curiosity and anxiety making him oscillate. Steve drops the spoon behind himself and barely remembers to cover the sound with a cough. It’s shiny and unthreatening; if Tony's still anything of himself, and Steve knows he is, it might just be the incentive he needs to investigate.

Besides, Steve has no idea what you’re supposed to do with a stolen spoon. He has no idea what Tony would do, either, but that's just through inability to _predict_ him. The smartass.

He breathes deeply as Tony works himself closer; scents are sharper, clearer now, and he can set aside the bad smell. What is left is water, stone, some mildew, the iron of the door, bread and butter, napkin paper, Tony and himself. Tony smells of stress and fear, but not of blood or pain, except for a little bit at his fingertips probably. A hint of his blood-scent is on the turny things --hinges-- of the door, and back in his corner where he has been prying at the stones.

He must have had time to look around before they gassed him. Or he was still capable of going for hinges when drugged out of his wits. Steve grins a little meanly; if they think this is going to stop Tony from being _resourceful,_ they are wrong. And he is relieved, so very relieved, that Tony does not smell like he left this cell or was hurt by anyone.

Steve hums as he breaks up one slice of the bread and puts some of it down behind himself. He is hugging the wall, almost facing it now to ensure that he does not catch a glimpse of Tony. There is a swish of displaced air, and when he puts his hand back the bread and spoon are gone. Steve wiggles backward a little more, and listens to soft scraping noises as Tony tests out the spoon.

 _Chkkshhhheep-_ Tony’s shoes have a slight squeak if he twists on the ball of his right foot. Steve doesn’t think Tony has noticed it yet.

He slides another mouthful of bread backwards, resting it in his open palm, and keeps his eyes on the door. The hatch they’d used to put on and take off his manacles has a millimeter-thin line of light around it where the seal isn’t complete; he’d be able to tell if someone was looking through the peephole by the shadows. Unfortunately, there are no cameras, or he’s sure Tony would have them in handy, lock-pick sized pieces by now. There must be a vent or grating somewhere, though, for introducing the gas...

Unless they’d piped it in through the door, which seems likely given how averse Tony is to approaching it. The air doesn’t feel stuffy and close though; there must be ventilation besides the door.

A tiny _tasty-nice_ noise from behind him makes some of the tension leak out of his shoulders. Then, there’s a warm rough touch on his hand (left strategically trailing behind him), and Tony’s licking the traces of butter off his palm and finger-pads with soft rasping sounds, holding his arm in place with bruised and scratched-up fingers. His hands feel hot after the clammy air, and Tony’s tongue is very dry.

Steve couldn’t bring any water back, but if they want Tony alive, they’ll have to give them water at some point. He holds very still; Tony is not quite bruising his arm with his grip, but it’s not trusting, either. He keeps his attention split forwards and back, ready to prove he can protect Tony from whatever’s coming, but this is important. Feeding Tony might be the only thing he can do to make him categorize Steve as safe.

Tony snuffles at his hand until it’s clear that there’s nothing left in it, and then his fingers creep up Steve’s arm and pick at his shirt sleeve. He’s got the space to hand back another morsel without dislodging Tony, so he does and Tony makes a satisfied half-swallowed vowel sound. He’s efficient about claiming all the butter, and then tugs a little more pointedly on Steve’s shirt.

Oh-ho--- he’s learned a trick; tug = gimmie.

Steve thinks that's good, it’s a form of communication, right? He could break up the other slice of bread, dole it out bit by bit and train Tony to let him approach, let him touch--

He doesn't want to do that, though. He wants to share. Steve got to eat already, it's only fair.

Steve turns his head very slowly, keeping his gaze soft and unfocused, not quite making eye contact. He takes one bite from the other slice of bread and then holds the whole slice out, chewing placidly.

Tony snatches it from his hand and jumps back, snarling again. He paces back and forth along the deepest side of the cell, glaring, unfolding and refolding the napkin wrapping a dozen times before he breaks off about half the bread and bolts it in three bites, then refolds the napkin around the rest and stashes it carefully in his corner.

Then he approaches Steve again, in fits and starts, despite Steve taking care to watch just from the corner of his eye. Takes Steve's forearm in a near-bruising grip and tugs quite hard.

Up close again Steve can smell his anxiety and fear, can catch the flash of teeth as he grimaces, for all the world like he's doing an experiment he expects to blow up in his face. He's still scared, but he's desperate too.

He needs another payoff like the one before, but Steve has nothing left to give him. He lets Tony move his arm, lets Tony gingerly pull him flat on his back and sit on his elbow and snuffle at all his pockets, making a continuous low warning growl.

Steve whines, high and thin. His pockets are empty. He can't help, he's _sorry--_ He curls up just a little and his face is wet, and then Tony's face is in his face, licking at him, licking his cheeks and eyelids with a soft huffing _hh-hh-hh._

“...’m sorry, I’m okay, ‘s just this _stupid place_ ,” Steve says, barely forming the sounds into words, and Tony’s weight shifts so he can nuzzle behind Steve’s ear. “Took our comms, took your watch...” And they haven't given Tony anything to eat or drink, so it can't have been days yet, but in the dark and the cold he can't trust his sense of time. Steve knows he probably shouldn't, but he tilts his chin up to bare his throat and make it clear he's not attacking, and ever so slowly wraps his arms around Tony's back, holding his restless energy, reassuring himself.

Tony doesn't bite him, but he's tense as a wire. He wriggles against Steve's arms, sniffing, then wriggles backward out of the loose hold, and his hoodie comes back up over his head. He's reacting like a wild animal that has not the faintest clue what a hug is, though he's willing to indulge the bizarre behavior for a few seconds. Maybe...not so different from his normal reaction.

Steve manages to pull himself together enough to sit up and check the door. His nose is stuffy and he sniffs; it comes out louder than he expects and he tenses. Tony’s behind him, out of sight, and he hopes he didn’t make him jump with his stupid stuffy nose. Silence.

Silence is okay, silence is no guns, no keys in locks. He makes himself relax and half notices that his brain was foggier when he was closer to the ground, but there’s not much he can do with the observation.

A shadow of warmth creeps up to his back, palpable on the back of his neck and through his thin, silky undershirt. Tony makes more _hhh-hh_ sounds, and licks at the back of his neck. Steve figures it’s fine, that Tony can do what he likes to feel better. Maybe Steve tastes familiar, maybe he’s comforting himself. Steve’s worried too, he gets it. Scary place.

Then Tony does bite him, and Steve whips around at the unexpectedness of it. Tony's jumped backward out of reach before he notices it really wasn't very hard. Maybe just to get his attention. He says "Ow," and lowers his hand from the back of his neck, and Tony comes boldly forward and tugs his arm again, pulls him off-balance. Steve lets him, confused, and Tony makes a disgusted _hrghh_ exactly like he does when Dummy drops a box of nuts on the floor just for the pleasure of picking them all up. Tony tugs again, but he has no chance of actually bodily dragging Steve. He makes another disgusted noise.

Tony wants Steve to come to his corner.

That is...progress. That’s _great_ , but how does he get over there without scaring all that progress away by being so much bigger than Tony? Tony seems to think he should stay facing the door, which is a good idea, Steve can go with that. He shuffles carefully back with his hands, then lifts his ass back too, and Tony makes a ‘ha!’ of triumph. Another tug, another shuffle, and they’re backed into the corner, with the tiny hoard of bread and some sharp-edged stone chips that Steve notices littering the floor under his fingertips, and the faint smell of Tony’s blood.

He’d been picking at the wall, where one of the bigger stones has nine neat holes drilled through it. There’s a breeze, even, and it smells fresh-ish. Not like the rest of the room at least, not like animals and fear. Tony presses his face up against the vent and breathes deeply, then backs away and lets Steve do the same. More stone, more water. Dank but clean, no sewer smells. Very, very faintly, a hint of outside. So this fresh air wasn't enough to keep the other stuff from working, but maybe it helped.

"This corner's best. For sure," Steve murmurs. "Good taste." Tony sniffs, and produces the spoon from somewhere --he clearly still understands pockets, which is interesting-- and starts digging at the mortar around one of the nearby stones, not the vent-stone but an adjacent one. It makes noise, but Steve can see he's immediately making progress too, with _hm! hm!_ noises of satisfaction.

The mortar is old, white and crumbly, and leaves marks on Tony’s beard like chalk when he presses close to blow the slot he’s carving clear of dust. Every few dozen strokes, he wipes the spoon on his trouser leg, and inspects the edge. Far from going ‘blunt’ --if that term can be applied to a tiny spoon-- it’s getting more pointed, and Tony gets more efficient with each scrape. Steve wants to watch more, because it’s _progress_ and because he always wants to watch Tony when he’s working, but Tony isn’t happy. He keeps looking up at the door with urgency plastered all over his face. Fear.

Aside from a few uncertain days in SHIELD's custody Steve has no history of captivity, not like Tony does or Bucky and the others did. He can recognize their antsiness when they feel a trap closing, but he doesn't feel it, not the same way.

So Steve shuffles to cover Tony with his back. It blocks the meagre light from the gaps under and around the door, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind, and he pokes the spoon into the light under Steve’s arm and peers over his shoulder when it next needs inspecting. The unthinking contact and the unselfconscious press of Tony's hip against his back are the best things Steve has felt today.

Twenty minutes in, and Tony’s fear-smell has faded to something a bit more like the comfy-work-sweat smell that only Steve gets the privilege of detecting most days. His hums and tsks and the little sounds of crumbling mortar hitting the floor run over the constant hsssssskk of the scraping spoon.

Steve lets his mind wander, eyes fixed almost calmly on the door, and wonders what exactly Tony intends to do with access to a stone ventilation shaft they can't fit more than one arm into.

A distant set of footsteps make his ears itch like they want to twist and listen and he tenses. Silently, he pushes up into a crouch, one fist against the floor for extra balance and the other hand on the wall to keep the corner safely boxed in, so no one can see Tony, no one can make him scared. His muscles thrum with tension; from here, he could leap clear through the doorway before anyone even had the chance to raise a weapon, and he's _angry_ enough to break heads on the way down.

The sound of scraping mortar stops when the growl building in Steve's throat gets loud enough for human ears and Tony's hand is hot and shaking on Steve's back. He leans close, his forehead against Steve's shoulder, and vibrates. His whine is high to Steve's almost subsonic anger, and full of fear. He reaches forward with his dominant hand, snaking under Steve's arm, and pushes the spoon at his hand.

A _weapon._

It's sharp now, sharp enough to be lethal, and he accepts it just as the cracks around the door flicker with someone's shadow. The manacle-hatch slides open and blinding white-blue light spears in. Steve hisses in pain, eyes watering, and Tony hides his face against Steve's back, safe in his shadow. He can't see the door at all now, the darkness away from the blinding light speckled in purple and green splotches, so he growls; _danger-keepaway!_ and dares them to hurt his friend even now, because he'll _break_ them.

But the door doesn't open. Voices with words he doesn't know sound smug and slimy and horrible, but they don't give him the chance to shut them up and the hatch slides closed with a very final metallic clank.

The light is gone, leaving him blind and impotent and shaking with adrenaline. His growl shifts smoothly into a pain-filled whine; his eyes hurt and his head _aches_ and he couldn't get them free and it's the worst.

His face is wet again, and Tony clicks shakily at him, patting his shoulders and then his chest and pushing him to his back in a little pile of misery. Tony's weight settles against the side of his chest, then he's licking at his face again, his dry little tongue cleaning away the salt while Tony's wordless voice tells him off for wasting water.

He sniffles irritably, though Tony's tongue feels nice and warm in this horrible dank dark, and wants to curl up into a ball so he can rub his eyes in peace. He can't help it, here; it's cold and smells and he's powerless and it's _awful._ The bad smell, whatever it is, takes away the words he would use, the stories he would tell himself to keep his feelings balanced; he feels like a little kid, down and up and down again, with no way to smooth it out. Tony's weight keeps him from wriggling away, so he presses close instead. He has the horrible certainty that if Tony bites him now, or runs away, he'll cry for real, and possibly throw himself against the door. But Tony doesn't push away, he leans close and snuffles and licks and then rests his cheek against Steve's chest, tucked under his chin.

Steve cries some more, anyway, and hugs him back for as long as he'll let him. Warm and heavy and, for now, safe within the circle of Steve's strength.

Eventually, Tony feels along his arm for the spoon still clutched in his fist, so Steve gives it back. They need to go back to scraping and watching the door, as much as he hates the idea of letting Tony up. They compromise, and Steve lets Tony go but hangs on to his sleeve right up until Tony’s hands land on his shoulders. Tony bullies him upright against the adjacent wall so he's covering the corner again, and gets back to work with his spine pressed up against Steve.

His night vision takes eleven minutes to come back, normally, and he tries not to rub his eyes with his dusty hands while he waits. The green and purple splotches hang on what feels like a little longer than that before giving way to the dusty yellow lines around the hatch, and he starts to be able to see past the afterimage of the light. It must have been something like a floodlight, or a spark welder; the afterimage is jagged like a lightning bolt. He tries to settle into watchful silence, looking past the zig-zag, like he did keeping watch over an encampment, but he's too aware of every inconsequential little noise and shuffle.

A long, relatively peaceful few hours do nothing to make it easier, and then the lights under the door go out, leaving them in absolute dark. Steve’s anxiety ratchets up; they haven’t made a peep, no one has so much as walked past since the blinding light. There’s been no water for Tony, and there was none at the Scientist Supreme’s weird lunch either, only espresso and wine; Steve needs to pee _and_ his head hurts again, a dull vague pounding. Dehydration.

Tony doesn’t seem bothered by the dark, though he stops trying to check the pointyness of his spoon. Maybe he can feel it enough, or maybe he’s making do; he's still scraping, feeling out the growing gap between the stones with his fingers, though every so often he stops to rest his temple against the cool wall and swallow, throat clicking. He’s not using the arc reactor for light; it’s still covered. Steve doesn’t know if he’s forgotten it exists, or is keeping it safe, and the chasm between the two possibilities is making his toes itch.

His _toes_. This place is...bizarre.

He twitches at a bigger scraping sound, and then the spoon clatters against the floor followed by the soft crack of a stone thumping down, and Tony demands his attention with that same sleeve-tug. Carefully, keeping his palms on the ground, he obeys the ‘turn’ implicit in the twisty way Tony is pulling, until Tony actually snaps at him, teeth up near his face. Steve recoils.

Tony makes an impatient sound, and grabs Steve’s hand in the complete darkness, somehow knowing exactly where it is. Steve understands when the nine-holed stone materializes under his fingers. The brick to its left is gone; Tony shows him the worn away mortar, and demonstrates tugging at the vent stone’s edges.

“Oh. Oh, yeah, mmhm.” Finally, he can actually help, and the cube of stone grinds out of the hole. The mortar left around it crumbles away under Steve’s strength now that he has a proper grip, and that Tony has been able to do this in just a few hours is unbelievable.

Genius is deeper than words, Steve figures, lowering the vent stone to the floor with a grunt. Fresh, damp air wafts in from the shaft and they both breathe deep.

Inward from the vent stone the shaft is a little bigger, but the opening is about six inches on a side, nothing either of them can fit into. Steve is feeling out the edges when he notices Tony patting around himself, then tugging down the zipper of his hoodie and patting again until he figures out how to unbutton two buttons, just enough for a diffuse pearly light to shine through his t-shirt and let them see the ghostly shape of the wall and the hole in it. Tony isn't looking at him, but he's stiff, tense, probably ready to bolt; Steve doesn't move at all, except to hunch for a better view into the vent. He can hear a new sound from inside, maybe the high hum of a far-away ventilation fan.

The light flickers with the shadow of Tony’s fingers beating a heartbeat against against his t-shirt, over the glass. His hand snaps out, towards the deep recesses of the ventilation shaft, then back to his chest, still empty. A low whine starts up somewhere in Tony’s throat, and he butts his forehead against Steve’s shoulder. He’s shaking his head, his teeth are gritted; he’s gearing up to do something really stupid.

Steve has no idea what could be that dangerous in there, but Tony’s stripped bare, and Steve doesn't like the thought of either of them sticking a hand in a trap.

He really hopes it’s not scorpions.

.  
.  
.

It’s probably not, to be fair; it's too cold for them. But, still.

He brings his face closer to the hole and stares, willing his pupils to dilate more, catch every little bit of the arc-glow, and sees a shine off something. A collection of rounded surfaces floating in the unrelieved black. There's something in there all right.

He freezes, holds absolutely still, and it doesn't move either; it's not alive. The shape it seems to be seems familiar, a shape he used to see often-- it's a _microphone_ just like the big one they used on the USO tour and at the radio stations. A microphone! Shit!

Steve controls his first atavistic reaction; breaking the mic won't do anything. If someone has been listening, it's too late to cover their activities now. He breathes deeply, and now he can pick up hints of steel, old resin, ancient bakelite almost merging with the stone-and-water. The mic has been in there for a long, long time. It's _old_. It's decrepit, maybe broken, maybe forgotten.

But it's live. The faint high hum is electric current, a different tone than the machines today make.

Tony twists against him, peering at his face and at the hole, growling softly. "It's a microphone. Old," Steve tells him. "Dangerous! Electric, still, still electric." Tony doesn't understand, though he's picking up Steve's agitation. He can't see in the dark as well as Steve.

If they had a little more arc light Tony could see it too, might even grasp the danger and the possibilities right away, but there is no way Steve is going to pull up Tony's shirt or even motion toward the reactor. That would get him bitten for sure. There's nothing more threatening Steve could possibly do; he shouldn't even look too long at it.

But maybe if he can pull out the microphone a little, to where the light reaches… He tugs his sleeve down his wrist just in case and pulls Tony back so he can reach in. The stone is cold and gritty rather than slimy (small mercies) and he feels around gingerly for...there. There’s the cable, and something small and intricate connecting the microphone to the st--

“Ow! Fuck.” He pulls his hand back out and tries to stick his shocked fingers in his mouth. Tony stops him, hands lightning quick, and licks his fingertips, then blows quickly. It’s cold, and Tony’s grumbles are comforting, and he hangs his head so he’s breathing Tony-scent and clean air from the vent. “Should have seen that coming.”

Tony doesn't respond, but he looks disapproving without making eye contact. Still, Steve is more resistant to shock and injury than Tony, so it makes sense for it to be him.

He tries again, this time with a better mental map of what he's grabbing at. If he reaches a bit further before... There. He grabs the insulated main length, avoiding whatever shocked him the first time, and tugs gently. He doesn't want to pull it out only to disconnect the power in the process, because for every one thing Tony can do with a cable and the arc reactor, he can do twelve with a cable and power.

Something snags and the wire twists. Bare metal touches his forearm and burning hot snaps

up his arm and into his shoulder. His hand feels cramped tight and he wishes he'd used his right, because the tingling warm spasms of current are passing right down his left side and dangerously close to his heart. The sensation spreads out from his shoulder in a branching, erratic pattern and ow, ow, his heart skips; the stuttery leap of it into his throat is familiar and terrifying.

He hears his own voice yelping in the pain he's desperately trying to keep at a distance, and then Tony bowls him over backwards. His body jacknifes against Steve's chest as he grounds the current and the point they touch crackles with a short, sharp _snap_ of a shock before the cable locked in Steve's grip comes free from the depths of the vent and the electricity lets him go.

“Tony, Tony, nono, no, Tony?” he mutters in horror. He pushes the cable well away from them with nerveless fingers and buries his face in Tony’s neck. Shudders travel through them, though he can’t say who they start in, and Tony’s gasps sound dry and painful.

The arc is still bright, but Steve doesn’t know what that means for the fragile muscle underneath it and Tony smells burnt and sick and-- and some of that is coming from his own arm. It really is burned this time, a charred hole in his sleeve next to the blister where the cable touched him, and a sharp, meandering line of fire-burning-pain from there all the way to his shoulder.

He’s stunned and it’s hard to move, but Tony is squirming and alive (mostly for now maybe hopefully) and forces him to let go. They're not apart for long; Tony turns over, crouching over him and pulling apart his collar and reaching hot fingers to feel his pulse. He's warm, his knees on either side on Steve's waist are like a hug, and Steve winds his fingers into Tony's waistband, letting him touch as long as he likes; he's still shaky and honestly not sure he could get up yet. Give him a couple minutes, sure, but his heart's still going like gangbusters. He may be as healthy as a horse now, but his body remembers being ill and weak too, and he's glad this didn't happen in the middle of a fight.

He's sure that shock grounded in Tony. Grounded in his _chest--_ did it go all the way through him to the cell floor? No, Tony had been on top-- did it ground in the reactor? Is that okay?

There's footsteps in the hallway though, two voices of alarm and one of satisfaction, and Steve can't stand being on his back like this with a threat approaching. He needs Tony close, inside his reach where he can break anything that threatens him.

Tony pushes him down, hard. Steve tries to sit up again and Tony pushes him down hard again, puts one knee on his sternum and growls right in his face. Steve freezes, because that's the tone of _do-not-mess-this-up_ , of Iron Man committed to something crazy, when the deepest expression of trust his team can make is to fall in line behind him. Tony glares, teeth white in the arc-glow, until Steve tilts his chin up and goes limp. Then Tony's focus snaps between the door and the cable, laying forgotten along the wall. He shuffles his feet, making his weight peak painfully on Steve's chest, but doesn't move.

Steve holds on, sets his feet so he can move quickly if...something happens, but he stays loose. Whatever Tony does, he wants to be able to follow. If the cable isn't connected anymore, Steve can't fathom _what--_

Footsteps come right up to the door; Tony crouches as the hatch is opened and his snarl rips out as the light spears over them. Steve has his eyes tight shut. There's a burst of surprised laughter from the door, and the hatch slides shut again.

As soon as the light is gone Tony is off him, moving fast and assured. At first he's doing something Steve can't make out, but when he stands up his shoes are on his hands; he must have been toeing them off earlier. He goes to the hole and pulls more cable out, using the rubber soles of his shoes to hold it, and then scuttles it carefully along the deepest line of shadow to the door. Tony presses right up against the door, listening, then takes the end of the wire and strips it against the frame, very carefully not touching the door as he does so. Steve can hear the _snap_ as it shorts against the metal; not so dead.

Tony arranges the wire about a foot inward from the door, angled up so it will brush against the lower edge as it opens. Okay, yes, it doesn't help to electrocute guards through the door if that leaves the door still locked, them still in here with no water. But how are they going to get the guards to open the door.

Steve tries to ask, tries to say _Tony how_ , but all that comes out is a short high whine. He's been lying down for at least five minutes, he's a little compromised.

Tony comes back to him, tense, all his focus on the door. His lips will half-cover his teeth and then jerk up again; his growl is low and grating like rocks in his chest. He has to be close to his limits from thirst, but he's ready to fight and his eyes are clear.

Steve is ready too. His rippling snarl joins Tony's briefly without him intending to make it, but he doesn't care. It will be so good to fight back, to get out of this awful cell and into a stronger position, where Tony isn't scared or in pain anymore.

Like he’s asked for permission, Tony looks at him, then lets him up. The snarls stop for half a second before Tony’s shoulder-checking him just enough to rock him back on his heels. Eyes flash in the dark, and Tony’s teeth snap closed inside a grin. Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, he’s shocked, but he can understand that face even in the dark.

It means ‘drive fast cars with me’ and ‘come flying’ and ‘let's _spar_ ’.

Steve glances at the door, wonders what they’d looked like through the hatch, then grunts and snaps an answering challenge. Tony leads with his shoulder again, thumping against Steve's chest, and Steve lets it drive some of the air out of him in a bark of offended, wordless sound. He retaliates with a rising yell and pounces on Tony hard enough to cut his continuous rumble off. As he rolls them, Tony over backwards and Steve forwards, he kicks the ground hard enough to make a solid thump.

 _Loud, attention-seeking, wild, insane,_ feral.

He’s glad for the hard not-leather soles as the strike sends tingles up his calves, eerily reminiscent of electricity biting him in the dark.

Tony’s huffed breath is half laugh, half indignant aggression, and Steve over-plays the sound of Tony’s fist hitting his stomach. Tony’s aim was off, but Steve groans like he can’t breathe, then scrapes some air together for a furious roar as they tumble back across the floor under Tony’s momentum. His shoes make a satisfying clatter-smack, but it’s not as loud as their voices.

Tony yelps loud, in what sounds eerily like real pain, and Steve lets up for a second; ah, if they keep rolling this way, they might roll into the cable. Tony slithers up in a flash and gets Steve in a neck hold he didn't see coming soon enough, and then sticks his tongue in Steve's ear. Steve shrieks high and startled, then struggles to keep it from turning into a happy sound at the end. That's it. He goes for the belly button, and Tony is frantically wiggling away before his hand is anywhere close, then shrieking out as soon as Steve finds the skin of his stomach. It sounds awful with the way his throat is so dry, and Steve figures this is pretty good. He rolls so that Tony is under him and pretends to bite his throat. His skin tastes like coconut and ozone, but also like cell-fug and animals. Aggression.

Tony pants harshly, with little strangled yelps every so often. He's unsettlingly good at faking. Steve wonders how often Tony's been faking him out in their real sparring matches. Maybe that's why Natasha always has a little smile as she watches.

He’ll have to ask, he thinks as the spotlight fills the cell again, blinding him and turning his snarl up a level; she’ll be impressed that he’s noticed, maybe. The thought gives him a little swoop of pleasure that solidifies into triumph as the door swings open and then _bang_ , their trap lights up the whole cell for a flashbulb second _._ The guard touching the door flies backwards, out of sight, and the second crumples under 130lbs of feral engineer.

Steve hauls himself up and barrels out of the door after Tony, a rolling ball of snarls and rage that leaps from one uniform to the next, pressing the attack with insane aggression. Steve doesn’t bother with anything as elaborate as teeth, just uses his heavy boots to leave the guards seeing stars.

Speed, surprise, and luck. This time, it's enough.

When the guards are all down, it’s only fitting that Steve drags them into the cell and shuts them in the dark. The door he can touch as long as he uses his foot; boots _protect_. It isn't that hard to hook his toes under the handle and pull it shut, and the lock is _simple_ ; no key, just a sliding bolt. No wonder they didn't want his hands near it.

Tony relieved the guards of their holsters first, of course; he's making a neat pile of abandoned, stripped guns and two piles of ammunition. He stands, a gun belt going to his waist and half-buckled, when he puts a hand to the side of his head and folds up. The pile of ammunition scatters as he hits the floor shoulder-first. Steve is on him in a second, lifting his head off the ground and whining, but there's no blood-scent; they both took bruises, but only the first guard had had his gun out, and none of the others were fast enough. (All the guards smell like really terrible gin.)

Tony's breathing, but not very responsive, and his pulse is way too fast and hard to find. He moved too fast, too much violence; there’s no blood left in his face and he’s almost colourless. Water, where is the water. Steve follows the gin-smell to a tiny break room, an interrupted game of cards; there's a sink, there's a cup formerly holding terrible gin, and it's hard to move slowly enough to keep water in it on the way back to Tony.

Tony can't drink from the cup. His mouth works, but he's not conscious enough; his jaw is slack and eyes glazed over. Steve sips, holds a little water in his mouth, and transfers it that way, safer than running the risk Tony will choke on more. Tony’s mouth is slack under his to start, but then he breathes deeper, tongue lapping at the water Steve lets past his lips. Steve hears the first swallow clicking in Tony’s throat and Tony coughs the sound away, eyes screwed shut. A little more water, and Steve can’t hear the horrible dry rattle anymore; another mouthful, and Tony’s making tiny ‘thankyou-more-more’ plucks at his sleeve, and resting his head against Steve’s arm in between.

When the cup is empty he drapes Tony over his back, gets them both to the break room, and ransacks it in between pauses to kiss more water into Tony. Tony swallows, paws at his face, licks into his mouth; he refills the cup again, and Tony refuses to open his eyes yet, but with help he drinks on his own and then curls exhausted in the dimmest corner, trusting as a kitten.

Steve can barely make himself stop touching long enough to get him water, but he’s got to barricade them in, make time for this to wear off. He takes a step away from Tony, and finds the bare lightbulb _annoying_. The thin glass breaks easily, and the comfortable dark is back. They are strong in the dark.

Tony sighs, relieved, relaxing, and Steve pushes the table against the door. It’s sheet metal at least, it’ll take more than a boot to knock down.

Under the sink he finds a pile of black rubber faces with glass eyes. Under the pile are another two bottles of terrible liquor, and a metal canister with a nozzle and a hose. It stinks of the bad smell.

Oh-ho. What shall they do with this?

\--------------------

"Weirdest fight ever," Clint says. "Not that I'm complaining.” He fires off another dart magazine, which self-targets the five secondary shots he laser tagged beforehand. Five AIM guys go down without even realising the significance of the darts in their skin.

“It's almost refreshing to tranq people. Also, not getting shot at, yay.” He’s having to show off just to make this _interesting_. “Buuut on the minus side," _thwip_ , "human bites are seriously gross, 'cause I don't think AIM provides dental, and they might turn us into werewolves."

 _"These people aren't werewolves,"_ Bruce sighs.

"Zombies."

 _"Zombies!"_ Thor bellows. _"A terrifying foe!"_

 _"They are not zombies either. They're all normal living humans, they've just been drugged. Keep your gas masks on. Thor, that includes you. None of you are allowed to go on a terrifying animalistic rampage, Tony tells me it's bad for press."_

"You stay in the Avenjet," Clint and Nat chorus together.

 _"Aye,"_ Thor agrees. _"I do not relish fighting your otherself gone truly berserk. Zombies would be better."_

 _"Staying,"_ Bruce sighs.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Clint says. "Nat, you have eyes on the Tango quadrant of the moat? Two swimmers."

 _"I see them. Using the shadow of the drawbridge."_ Nat double-clicks her mic and she's off, a shadow among shadows.

He catches a flicker of movement in the moat; the two swimmers are working together and one of them isn't doing so well. Clint clears up his quadrant right back to the gate, giving himself some breathing room, and trains a low-light scope on the movement...

Shit, the scope doesn't show colour, but he'd bet the avenjet that the wide shoulders pulling a smaller shape through the moat are blue. Their hair is darkened with water, but... It's them, it has to be. None of the AIM druggies are working with anything like that much coordination.

"Nat, do not engage, it's them!" But that double click meant she's gone off comm, she can't hear him. Clint glances at his sector, and curses; there are a couple of runners, so he has to pause and knock them down before he can move.

"Hawkeye to War Machine; I see them! Tango quadrant, in the moat," he reports, holstering his bow and taking off across the scrubland to assist.

Rhodes roars overhead, his repulsors lighting their way briefly, enough to alert Natasha. "I see them. Confirmed, it's Tony. Reactor's signal appears fully functioning. Damn am I glad to see that."

Natasha clicks back into all-comm, stealth abandoned. "Do not approach, War Machine; they're affected too. Bruce, please advise sedation protocol." Rhodey streaks back around the base, and by the sound of it, settles in with Thor to draw attention in that direction.

Clint comes up beside a stand of gorse, which resolves into gorse plus Natasha once he's close enough, and watches Steve haul an uncooperative and uncoordinated Tony on to the bank. They flop on the grass in the shadow of the bridge, chests heaving, all tangled up together.

 _"It's a risk. We don't know how their systems have been stressed,"_ Bruce warns, eventually. _"These goons are bradycardic under dendrotoxin, and they haven't been...leveraged at all. Try approaching first; the drug lowers inhibitions but it doesn't seem to_ cause _aggression, just reveals what was already there. Everyone we've found is crazy, but they aren't attacking each other. For the most part."_

Clint groans mentally; Bruce is relying on the healing power of emotionally stable team relationships again. Clint assesses the pile of exhausted superhero on the bank, soaked through, and exchanges a look with Natasha. They both know what _leveraged_ means, know how far from their right minds anyone is after that.

This is her territory, and she rolls her eyes before handing over her visible weapons and sauntering out of cover. She'd take off the gas mask too, if she could, but at least it's a low-profile SHIELD version.

Steve freezes immediately, and Tony does too: they hold so still they could almost be taken for a pile of dirty, brightly colored debris. Clint doesn't think they're breathing. Damn, it's sort of terrifying to see Tony use his willpower that way, to match a supersoldier's ability to hold his breath after strenuous exercise. Tony will pass out long before Steve does, but Clint's willing to bet that he'd stay still all the way up to that line. He nocks a tranq-tipped arrow as quietly as he can.

Steve's eyes flick over; he heard something. But then his focus is back on Natasha. She's approaching them slow and unhurried, her body language soft and open, and he lets her get within fifteen feet before he's up like lightning, crouching between her and Tony with his fingertips just resting on the ground, growling in a rumble Clint can hear from forty feet away. Tony gasps and coughs hard and then he hauls himself up, scrambling into cover under the dressed stone foundation of the bridge. No fool. Clint loses his shot, and watches as Steve retreats step by step back under the bridge too. He'll need to circle around to get a shot from the other side, but there's no cover there and Tony will see him long before he has space to shoot.

Clint sighs, sets down his bow, leaves it and his quiver and his sidearms in a neat pile next to Natasha's. He conceals a tranq dart in his hand, puts another one up his sleeve, and steps out of the bush, not being loud but making no real attempt to be quiet either. As soon as he steps around the other side of the bridge and circles around far enough to get a view underneath, there's the pale oval of Tony's face in the shadow, watching him intently. The shape sways and tilts like Tony’s struggling to stay vertical, and Steve crowds him against the stonework, shoring him up. It makes Clint even less inclined to tranq Tony; if he’s compromised somehow... ‘s not good.

He keeps his palms out and low, thumb holding the dart invisible, and tries to look unthreatening while Natasha works her magic.

"Captain? Hey there. Do you know who I am? We had waffles and blueberries for breakfast yesterday, right? Pair of clichés, Tony called us." Her voice is slightly muffled by the mask.

Steve's back shifts, shoulders lifting slightly as his spine straightens. His head tilts in what might be recognition, but it's damn hard to tell. The bubbling, defensive growl he's making is not a very human sound and Tony's face doesn't shift. Even if Steve's getting this, Tony isn't.

Nat steps forwards but Steve doesn't like that at all, and raises his guard. He backs Tony into the deeper darkness under the bridge. Nat apologises with her body language, truly contrite, and drops down into an awkward crouch. It's not one she could launch an attack from, her ankles are too tangled together, and Steve subsides into chuffing grumbles.

"Hey... You're wet, you wanna dry off? I've got towels if you want them. And your spare clothes, they're in the jet." Tony cocks his head slightly at the word _jet_ and Clint conceals a relieved smirk. "Steve," Nat continues, "we're here, your team is here, you're safe. You and Tony are safe."

Steve hunches a little but doesn't move. "Safe," Nat repeats, and she looks away, deliberately letting up pressure, and pulls out the big guns: a packet of jelly beans. Steve focuses on it like a laser.

Natasha eats a jelly bean, delicately popping the mask just long enough to put it in her mouth, then selects one and tosses it gently underhand at Steve. Steve catches it out of the air, inspects it, shows it to Tony who doesn't think much of it, and snaps it up, his throaty rumble stuttering off for a few seconds as he chews ferociously. His posture relaxes a little; something about the flavor is reassuring, is taking him a little away from the dangerous place they've been for two and a half days, toward somewhere he can believe is safe. The next one Nat tosses, he catches in his mouth.

Clint wishes _so bad_ he had a camera pointed at this, but Tony will definitely be alarmed if he fishes in his pockets, and that will revert the progress Nat is making with Steve. Tony is watching him like he just knows Clint is bad news, eyes occasionally flicking to the bushes and not-so-distant treeline.

Nat is up again, and somehow two steps closer; she sits with an air of finality a few feet away from the edge of the bridge's shadow. For the last distance she'll make Steve come to her.

Tony doesn't like this, and he likes it even less when Steve takes the first step, venturing toward Natasha with curiosity written all over him. Tony barks, less like a dog than like the unthinking kiai of someone sparring, and his growl is audible now that Steve's has stopped. He shifts back and forth, restless, staying in the shadow, and when Nat gently touches Steve's shoulder while he sniffs her, Tony breaks and bolts for it up the bank toward the scrubland and the trees. All his teeth are bared and his snarl promises that he'll go through Clint if he has to, but he stumbles at the base of the bank and puts his hands into the grass to scramble up. It’d be easy to drop him, even if he wasn't full of AIM crazyjuice; his limbs are poorly coordinated, loose and stiff at the wrong moments, and he looks...he’s in pain, his head maybe.

Clint makes a split-second decision, vanishes his palmed dart into his back pocket --without sticking himself in the ass-- and does nothing, palms down and obviously empty. Tony streaks well around him, leaving a trail of torn moss and handprints up the bank that vanish into the bushes.

Steve skitters halfway up the bank, stops, and paces in circles, clearly conflicted. He whines loudly to no reply, but Clint is watching and there's a stir in the branches not caused by wind. "He hasn't gone far," Clint murmurs on the comms.

"He won't leave Steve," Nat agrees.

 _“Oh! Uh, can you guys talk now? How are they responding, is it--?”_ Bruce asked, whispering as if that might disturb Tony and Steve.

“Shhhh, Bruce, hold your horses.” Natasha goes up to Steve, taking a meandering path over the end of the bridge rather than under it --which once again leaves the pressure off Steve-- and sits down in the loose sandy dirt. Steve ignores the jelly beans, too distraught, too focused, but Nat's calmness seems to communicate to him after a minute or two. He folds down to something that is half-sitting, half-crouched, and whines high and thin, testing the wind. Meanwhile Clint keeps tabs on where Tony is, and makes very sure not to stray in between them.

"Steve is willing to approach, but Tony isn't," Natasha says, her voice warm and low. "There was a slight reaction to the word 'safe'--"

"And 'jet'," Clint adds softly.

"--but otherwise no verbal recognition. They're down to body language and behavior. No visible injuries but that doesn't mean everything."

"They're both starving, and Tony’s head hurts, not sure why," Clint says. "Find something high-calorie, high-protein and heat it up so the smell drifts out the hatch. We'll try to bring Cap to you." Bruce's comm clicks affirmatively. "War Machine, can you warn me if Tony's signal gets more than about fifty meters distant from Nat's?"

 _"Yes I can. Is he hiding in the bushes?"_ Rhodey says, both incredulous and wry.

"Like a boss."

"He'll tag along after Steve if we give him enough space," Nat says with effortless assurance.

Clint trusts her judgement, but he has no idea what she's seeing that he isn't. "Thor, are you seeing any more AIM guys?" he asks quietly, watching the far side of the moat for movement, both in the water and on the bridge. There's a fluctuation in the light of one of the windows.

_"Nay, it would seem whomever remains is hiding."_

Clint agrees quietly. There's someone in the guard tower, either overlooking the bridge or the moat, but they're not shooting and Clint's confident they're drugged beyond knowing what their gun is for. Clint glances towards Tony's cover, over Steve's shoulder, and if he can't get a bead on him, no AIM dickwad is going to. He starts retreating towards the jet, keeping Steve between himself and Tony. He's got to retrieve his bow somehow, and he--

Steve looks at him sharply, glancing up the slope towards Tony, then eagle-eyed at the pile of weapons. Before Clint can figure out what that even means, Steve is right up in his face. His wrists are captured in seconds, and he's stuck, eyes wide, inches from Steve's face.

"Hold still, Clint, just...let him look at you," Nat cautions. He doesn't have her confidence, he's seen what Steve can do, but he doesn't have any other options either. Steve breathes deep and steady, his gaze scarily piercing, and then his whole face softens.

His grip on Clint's wrists turns gentle, fingers running delicately over his veins and petting the straps of his pulling glove under his sleeves, pushing the superlight stealth fabric out of the way with an artist's care inside a soldier's hands. Then, Clint's free for a bare second, before Steve's tugging him in by the nape and sniffing his collar, then the border of his gas mask. Clint has no idea whether he should be hugging, or tranqing Steve, or what, so he goes with nothing; he lets Steve touch and sniff as much as he likes. "Okay, big guy, um, this is weird. Help?"

"Wuss," Natasha announces, still in her soothing gentle tones. "Accept his team-leader affection."

"He didn't maul _you_." Clint's bare forearms get inspected, and Steve runs a careful hand over his skull, then he's huffed onto-- a gust of warm breath into his hair, behind his ear. Steve seems...pleased by something, it's weirdly nice, but Clint needs to be on guard, not lulled into a happy place by the big-brother routine.

"We good, Steve? 'Safe', yeah?" he tries, patting Steve's wet bicep cautiously.

Steve makes a wurbling 'hmm', then releases him with a push towards his weapons. Clint goes, completely baffled and awkward, and watches Steve hip-check Natasha for more jelly beans. He's moving like...

Like he's forgotten what a step is; not like he's forgotten how to do it, but like he's unaware of what it is he's doing. Completely unselfconscious and natural. He's aware of everything, scanning around, but not ever remembering to do it. There's no moment of remembering on his face, he's just _doing._

Clint takes his eyes off the world for long enough to check safeties on Natasha's weapons, seven maybe eight seconds, and there's a wolf behind him. It looms on the edge of his senses, close enough to his back to radiate heat and deaden sound from behind. The low susurration of air in its lungs makes the silence thick. Clint freezes because _there are no wolves in these woods_. All healthy wild animals stay the fuck away from battlefields, but then this animal might not be sane, might be affected by the gas.

A cold breeze on the back of his neck, a dark animal smell, and then a hot whiff of humid breath in his ear. He jerks and catches a glimpse of thick black fluff, then he's knocked down hard on his ass and the pistols ripped viciously out of his hands to the sound of an outraged snarl.

" _Tony?!_ "

Three sharp gestures per gun and Tony has the weapons in pieces. The recoil spring on his service weapon shoots off into the shadows, and Natasha's 9mm loses its slide to an angry flick of Tony's wrist. He reaches for Clint's bow, the bow Tony spent _hours_ customising, and Clint is ready to drop the tranq dart into his palm when he realises Steve _the fucking bastard_ felt up his arms for a reason: the dart up his sleeve is gone, and the one in his back pocket is probably broken now. (But still without jabbing him in the ass! Yay!)

But Tony doesn't break down the bow; he looks at it, shakes it a little like he always does to gauge the string tension, and leans it haphazardly on Clint's knee, keeping himself well out of reach. The look on his face is hard to read, it's all twisted up and tight; but the ashy-grey of his skin makes Clint’s stomach unsteady, and he’s suddenly very glad Steve disarmed him.

"Uh. Thanks?"

Tony doesn't deign to notice him speak, just stalks off with a loping, ground-eating stride into the trees, parallel to Steve and Nat. Clint relaxes marginally, shoulders his bow, and after a quick search finds his quiver kicked under a bush. “Ooookay. Be advised, Steve’s got a dart. A normal human dose.”

If Steve sticks himself with it, assuming full dose, it’d put him out for a few minutes. Tony, Natasha, and Clint would get the full forty, but Natasha’s the smallest, so a little longer for her... and Tony’s drugged, so who knows. It’s not ideal, and Clint covers their retreat to the jet with more attention on them than on the hostile enemy base.

For example, he’s busy watching Tony bully his way under Steve’s arm on the other side to Nat (and then try to not-so-subtly lure Steve away from her), when the big gate in the wall opens, and a lone guy in a gas mask creeps out. Clint sets his feet as soon as he notices -- _too slow, Barton, get it together--_ and hits him with a foam cement arrow, leaving him glued to the bridge out in the open. He clicks over to comms.

"Thor, War Machine? We got some guys in gas masks peeking out of the fortress. Now that we've collected our chicks, you may go to town."

There's a distant whoop from Thor through the clear air. Guy's considerate, he hasn't done that over the comms more than once.

Steve strides straight up the quinjet ramp, territorially touching the bulkhead and tapping the face of his shield on its hook. Clint has a moment of nose-twisting anxiety that the polish job he did on the way over isn’t good enough, but it’s got to be better than the concrete dust and blood that’d dried all over it.

Tony on the other hand... Tony looks like a marble statue of himself, standing fixed at the bottom of the ramp. Clint stops too, to keep well out of reach, and turns his back on the jet to take up watch. Even while Steve has the sense to beeline for Bruce’s hot rations, Tony’s sniffing the air and looking at the wing-mounted engines with deep suspicion. The glance he shoots Clint reads clearly as _how did you losers get something this awesome._

Not his problem, Clint decides, nocking an arrow and watching the fireworks as Rhodey blasts by the main gate again.

 _“Aiite, get lost you guys. We’re gonna blow this place to pieces and follow after,”_ Rhodey orders.

“Confirmed, War Machine, bugging out,” Nat reports from the cockpit. Clint isn’t so sure Tony’s going to be able to pull himself away from drinking in the sight of his precious jet, but Steve pops his head out and makes a click with his tongue, and Tony wavers his way up the ramp, deeply suspicious of everything. He stops again at the top when he sees how small the inside is, but as soon as he tentatively steps forward Nat flares the engines and hits the ramp-retract, and Clint sprints his way up inside as it closes. No takebacks.

\--------------------

Small!

The space is too small, he’s in arms' reach of _safe_ , but also _not-safe_. There are weapons, many, everywhere, and he’s got to put his back to something he can trust. Steve will do, his arms are long, the space inside them is safe. Maybe he’ll make the pain go away again--

Closing-trapped! Space is _moving_! No no no no no no OUT.

Red, big, smack-open-emergency --Steve grabs his wrist ouch he is serious, not play-fighting now-- and out is No, inside is No, out is No, this is not making sense.

He tells Steve he makes no sense, and gnaws on Steve's wrist with eyes narrowed; _you are stupid why stop OUT_. Space is _moving_ space is going _up_ space is at least (½)(5 m/s 2)(4 s)2 = 40 meters up, _too high_ to jump STEVE WHY. They're stuck in here now, this is _dangerous_. They could fall, who knows what these people will do.

The skin under his teeth tastes like metal now; punishment fulfilled, and Steve’s eyes are all sad. Big, sad, bad. Tony doesn’t _like_ it, so he licks, _sorry, you deserve it but sorry_. Steve is amused, bad Steve, amused over ouch.

The air is good here, though. Clean, biiiig breaths feel nice, not suffocating, and his chest hurts less. Steve’s shinyprotect is on the wall, he keeps looking at it with eyes that say _need_ , so when Steve lets him up Tony knocks it down, into Steve’s hand. There.

How did these people get that. They are strange, black-mask-faces recognised but not _right_. He pushes Steve, back, there, corner. Near emergency-out, even if Steve won’t let them jump. Up too high now anyway, too high without…something, safe thing, red and gold with a friend inside, he misses the thing so much it hurts. Shinyprotect in front, and Tony can hidehidehide, from the watching, inside Steve’s reach. Almost as good as red and gold, but red-and-gold is better, if he had red-and-gold he would protect Steve, they would both jump OUT so fast.

Steve’s rumbling is nice, but Tony doesn’t trust it; Steve trusts the red-hair-black-mask BAD PLAN. Steve is an idiot.

He peeks around the shinyprotect-- _shield!_ and sees black-mask _peeling off_ ; do not trust people who PEEL OFF their faces no no no no stay away!

Steve says _shhhhh_ and his bite is gentle, says _safe_ on the back of his neck. Tony squints and grumbles and feels prickly; okay, he recognises NOW, but still. Bruce has food but also needles do not trust. Clint is... Clint is OK. Even with mask. Good with the gift. Why did they do that why did they hide faces??

Did the air smell bad to them too? ….Maybe? Still a _shitty_ thing to do, he tells them so. They wrinkle faces but no teeth. Good. He is meaner than them.

Especially with his head like it is. Good food smells, but his head hurts too much to be hungry. Heavy and painful and angry at him. He wants more kisses, Steve made it feel better, and he is _thirsty_. He whines, saying ‘pleaseplease,’ and licks at Steve’s underthroat, hands tight in his shirt. Want.

The water in the shirt is no good; it smells like animals, like the problem that they made into a solution. It had smelled so _bad the worst_ , and stolen from him, he doesn’t want any more anywhere NEAR.

Solution, shirt off. Off, _now_ Steve. There are acceptable replacements, and Tony wants to sit on dry Steve soon more than he wants to sit on wet Steve right now.

When Steve is shirtless Tony wants to take his own wet, cold, bad-smelling shirts off. So many. WHY SO GODDAMN MANY, just so no one can see his thing, the thing in his chest, the thing he made. The outer one is easy, it comes apart, but the rest have to go over his head and he doesn't like it. Tony whines until Steve hides him again, presses _him_ back into the corner and says to everyone _stay away_ , and then Tony can take a deep breath and unroll them all off him, all at once, and when he gets his head back up again no one has moved, they have listened to Steve's _stay away_. Pants are so much easier. He takes all the wet things off.

There are towels, dry towels in the wall here, so soft; floof for the floof, and Steve’s floof dries easily, all messed up and all over his head, but light and dry. Tony hates his, wet and cold and stubborn, even when rubbed with driest towel. The cold makes his head hurt. More. It is cruel, and he takes Steve's sweater as compensation. His naked back is covered by the shield while he pulls it on, and Steve is very careful; it’s not safe, but it is bearable.

There are voices that don’t make _sense_ , and Tony thinks that these are not Team after all, because their words are not words at all, but Steve Trusts, and it’s hard to be wary when he is holding safe like that. Curled inside shield-protect space, Tony can almost relax, put warm dry pants on. The wet, animal-smelling things, he throws as far away as smallspace reaches. Splat. It’s a satisfying splat, and Clint picks them up from a distance, puts them in a bag so the smell doesn’t spread.

Good Clint. He wants to pet Clint’s floof, now; good boy. It is him. Face-peeling, strange voice aside, only Clint would use Clint-bow to pick things up. Trust feels warm, and he is cold. He won't bite Clint unless Clint deserves it, and really, Clint hardly ever does.

Red-hair Natasha approaches no no no, but she has a blanket and Steve wants it, no no no. This is how it starts with her. No. Steve ignores him but she doesn't, she stops still out of reach and tosses it with a soft whumpf and retreats without doing ANYTHING scary, and THIS IS HOW IT STARTS WITH HER, do not make that sound Steve don't. Steve no.

The blanket is warm though. Warm and big enough to fit both inside, Steve on the inside yes good, so Tony can move, even in the small space high in the sky where he cannot run but he has to move. She might need biting, she is scary but Steve cannot protect himself.

After blanket is Bruce. Tony knows this, he remembers. Bruce had black-mask-face, but now is back to stubble and curly-round. The air is clean, it must be true, because Bruce is not green. Bad smell would make Bruce green, lost and afraid and hurting, would steal from him, it would be scary. But Bruce's eyes are brown, not green, and he is calm-slow-calm. Safe.

He has SHARPS though, and Tony does not like sharps. They belong in the yellow and red bucket and not in his skin, it is the worst. There is nothing wrong with him, he does not need STICKING. (His head hurts, and he is so thirsty, so so thirsty, but that is needing to drink not needles.) He growls at Bruce, and he is sorry but no sharps no, put those down, leave them over there. No don't put on gloves, don't tear open packets. Tony's heart is going fast, he wants to run, this is not good.

Then there is a smell.

It _bites him._ It is bone saws and bleeding yellow and rot, iron where it was never meant to go, tied down and pain and red and pain, and Tony refuses, _refuses_ to let that touch Steve! It-- no nonono, no. No. Away. Go AWAY!

He bites, and tastes blood, so he shakes his head and tries to tear, and kicks. Hands are so _useful_ and he holds on. He will not let them get away and regroup, and come back with the bone saw. Steve’s chest does not NEED a hole, no one needs a hole in their chest, it hurts for _years_.

But he can't breathe, he needs to breathe and so he does let them get away no, and there is more kicking to try and reach, but he CANNOT and Steve you are so heavy but you are not helping why are you not helping are you hurt? Too late-- oh no-- Steve is limp and quiet and...

And rumbling and is safe-safe-warm sound, resting his weight on Tony all skin to skin, but Tony doesn’t believe it. He pulls and tugs and his shoulders hurt, battering against something hard-too-hard and cold. He is so cold, and his chest hurts, and his head hurts, he is weak. His arms are weak, but he forces them to move, to prove to them that they cannot touch Steve, they cannot have Jericho.

He freezes; that... his mind is not right. Jericho is not right.

Tony looks at Steve, and now Tony is afraid, he is all fear and shaking-afraid, he can’t _think_ and he wants to rest and his head _hurts_. Steve has a sharp. Steve has it in his hand, Steve would never hurt him, there is no smell, not the smell, not the latex alcohol biting smell.

The needle is tiny, very small, not worth feeling, and he is so tired. He lets Steve push it into his arm, and stops pushing, stops fighting. Whines and trembles and feels it weighing him down. His arms are weak, legs are weak, cannot move anymore. Steve pulls him back into blanket and rumbles, so warm, and the fear and pain wash under the _quiet-sleepy_ from the needle, and Tony lets it make him sleep.

\--------------------

"Bruce, how are you doing, talk to me buddy."

"Holding it together," Bruce grits. "Human bites _hurt_. The other guy...doesn't...like surprises."

"Taking care of the hurt right now," Clint says, spraying on anaesthetic-disinfectant after a quick glance to make sure Tony is out. The spray is alcohol-based, like _most_ of their first aid supplies, and if the smell brings back bad memories, if _that's_ why Tony ducks the medics or goes off into his own head while he's being treated...they need to get something else. Tony is too damn good at concealing his triggers.

“Okay, there. Hey Bruce, look at me. I need to ask mom to pull over?”

Bruce is shaking very slightly, but more in the shocky way than the angry one. “No, I’m okay, I dropped Steve's dextrose though, I need to get a fresh one, and Tony needs an IV, and blood sats, EKG, and--”

“Two out of three I can do. Get your shit together, stop leaking, etcetera. I’ve got you covered.”

“I can’t believe he _bit_ me,” Bruce wonders aloud, mildly shocked and hazy. He’s wrapping a bandage around his hand though, so Clint figures he’ll keep for now. The EKG is one of those weird ones, so Clint slaps the leads onto Tony’s right ankle and the inside of each wrist, and doesn’t have to intrude on the warm bubble Steve has made with his body and blankets. Blood O2-sat monitor goes on a finger, and Clint goes for a blood sugar strip too, though Steve makes the _worst_ sad eyes at him when he pricks Tony’s little finger.

The blood-sugar strip says that Tony has...probably not eaten anything for three days, since breakfast before the battle, Jesus Christ. Steve must have gotten food from somewhere or he'd be a hell of a lot meaner right now, but not Tony. Clint has to sit down for a minute. He's so sick of the way villains operate.

Bruce joins them cautiously; he’s looking at Steve like they might get a repeat performance, but Steve is soft and eerily calm. He drops the stolen dart onto the sharps tray, and Clint notes that he only pushed a quarter of the dose. It’s a relief, and Clint is damn sure he wouldn’t have managed that much precision.

Tony had gone so still for Steve; he’d looked at the needle, and then just accepted it. Not exactly welcomed it, but Clint thinks that maybe he won’t wake up hating Steve for using it. Bruce shows Steve the IV tubing before pulling out Tony's limp arm, and Clint bumps his shoulder against Steve’s for support when he looks like it hurts to nod.

There’s a huge bag of saline and glucose in Tony’s near future, and the needle is wide bore; Bruce isn’t fucking around. He uses alcohol wipes to clean the dart-mark and the inside of Tony's elbow with a little less gentleness than he would if Tony were awake, and Steve whines softly, wrinkling his nose. Bruce _growls_ , a deep bassy rumble, and Steve half-sneezes and shuts up.

Clint doesn’t freeze in place even though the Hulk would be a disaster right now, and Bruce coughs to clear his throat, and then his tone is back to something less concerning.

See? _Trust._

The IV slips easily in, and Bruce opens the valve wide once it spots with blood. "Dextrose for Steve?" Clint asks quietly, while Bruce tapes the tubing down. He's got it down to an art, and doesn't even have to hold anything in his teeth.

"There's more in the Superbox, your code should work."

Clint backs off, hand lingering on Steve's shoulder for support, and only turns once he's out of arm's reach, just in case. The Superbox is the dangerous stuff, the things that would put anyone but Steve in a vegetative state or just kill them outright; there's curare and horse tranqs and enough dex to put a normal man into a hyperglycemic coma.

Clint brings the pre-loaded shot back and Bruce checks in with Steve about it. He'd maybe-recognised it the first time, so here's hoping he will now, and let Bruce stick with it... and there's the look of _sad, sad moping_ that they all know, and Steve averts his gaze, tries to hide.

"Suck it up, Cap. You'll feel better for it. It's a three-four hour flight back to the Tower and you know you level out easier if we get your blood sugar up right away."

Giving up on hiding when it's quite obvious that they both know he's there and won't forget about him, Steve holds his arm out. He doesn't look away like he normally would, transfixed by the alcohol rub and the decapping of the needle.

"Hey, how's Tony? Huh, big guy? How's your boy?" Clint asks, nudging Steve. It's like nudging a brick wall. Steve doesn't shift except to look up at Clint, then at Tony, and Bruce takes the moment to push the needle in. Steve wrinkles his nose again and looks even sadder. _Why do you do this to me._

"I'm having circus flashbacks right now," Clint shares. "One of the tigers would make exactly that face when he got a pill in his food."

"Would he eat it anyway?"

"Hell yeah. It was _food_. He was a sweet old thing but he had his priorities."

Bruce adds Steve to the heart monitor --a plum-steady sixty beats a minute, the bastard-- and gets done tidying all the medical debris of the IV and the dextrose shot, then just sits for a minute.

"We have some uncomfortable choices," he says eventually.

"Tony."

"Yeah." Bruce takes off his glasses, cleans them, puts them back on, and checks the wrap on his hand. "When he wakes up, it's going to be hard to keep the IV in him, and I don't want to restrain him. I don't think that would turn out well. And I don't think it's good for him, being in a small enclosed dangerous space with all these people." He looks up at Clint. "Could you guess his pulse rate, even before something triggered him?"

"It was the smell of the alcohol wipe," Clint says. "And yeah, it was high. He was fight or flight ready this whole time." A heartbreaking mixture of timidity and aggression; when he looks over, Natasha's gaze is there calmly waiting for him to catch. She's on the same page as him. It isn't only Steve making him remember the circus, and the animals they'd rescued sometimes.

"I think we have to take this opportunity to check him for other injuries," Bruce continues reluctantly. "And, if possible, I don't want to subject him to the stress of the rest of the flight."

"As acting team leader, I back you up on both those decisions," Natasha says. "I'll do it if that's better."

"N-ooo," Bruce says. "Before we have to make it a, a team leader decision, let's see if we have anyone who can consent on his behalf. Do you know his medical proxy?"

Natasha toggles her comm. "Rhodes. Do you know Tony's medical proxy?"

 _"He has several. I'm one. Do I need to get in there?"_ Rhodey responds immediately, sharp with worry.

"It's not immediate and not life-threatening," Bruce says, "but if we can, we need a decision in the next ten or fifteen minutes. We had to tranq Tony, and I'd like to sedate him for the rest of the trip instead of letting him wake up again."

"He was very defensive of Steve, he got triggered, and he bit Bruce," Clint fills in, shifting towards the still-hot MRE Bruce has abandoned. Steve’s shot is 100% chemical energy, but he’ll still be hungry as hell, so. Sure enough, Steve’s eyes snap to the foil packet when Clint rustles it a little.

Rhodey sucks air in through his teeth, sounding like an old bathtub through the suit modulator. _"He bit Bruce? While the avenjet was in the air? Jesus. Okay, we have a few minutes... Let me see if I can connect to JARVIS. He's been riding shotgun when the reception was good enough."_ He clicks off again.

Clint offers Steve the MRE while they wait, and less than a minute later the food is gone and the avenjet speakers crackle with static, JARVIS' voice faint but understandable beneath it. _"Sir's medical proxies are James Rhodes, Virginia Potts, myself, and Steve Rogers. I understand the Captain is disqualified?"_

Bruce confirms that, and dumps a bunch of medical data on J, while Clint rummages for more food to feed Cap’s whale shark impersonation.

“The dehydration is severe; he needs to keep the IV in, and I’m not sure he’ll do that without chemical assistance.”

 _"Chemical restraint,"_ JARVIS corrects grimly. _"Ms Potts is unable to get to a satellite connection in time to offer her judgment. I would like to review the footage of Sir's behavior and discuss with Col. Rhodes."_

"Understood," Bruce says. "His pulse is slow and steady, his breathing and color are better than they were. I estimate we have at least ten minutes before he starts to come out of it, more if he's too exhausted to wake himself up quickly."

 _"Thank you, Dr Banner,"_ JARVIS says, and cuts the connection. For several minutes the only sounds are Steve inhaling another MRE, and Bruce's slow, methodical, quiet examination of Tony.

He opens the blanket in sections, first checking Tony's head and neck for bumps or swelling, lifting his eyelids and checking pupil response. Shoulders and arms get a lighter, more cursory check --dislocation or broken bones there would be pretty obvious-- but Bruce slows down again on his hands, which are battered, nails dark with dirt and blood and bruising. He cleans the blood away with a pad of gauze soaked in water, rather than alcohol wipes; Clint approves.

"Inconclusive," Bruce says after a minute's examination, and "Nothing broken," which is good at least. He tucks Tony's hands back in the blanket and feels along his ribs and abdomen, checking for internal injuries. There's a blistered, shiny burn wandering outward from one edge of the reactor, and Clint sucks air through his teeth as he spots it. An electrical burn. It's in a bad place; shocks to the chest can kill someone dead, and the blisters indicate higher amperage than a human should go near.

Bruce stalls, staring at it, and Clint figures they have to do something, say something, quick; the Hulk is still too close to the surface for his peace of mind. Nat is right there beside him. "That wasn't from torture," she says bluntly, matter-of-fact. "A shock like that is too likely to kill. That's from their breakout. Stark jury-rigged a wall circuit, or something connected to his reactor."

“JARVIS,” Bruce calls on the communal comm, and the line clicks to show J is listening. “There’s a mains-level electrical burn on Tony’s chest, p-please advise.”

Clint watches him watch the heart monitor. Clint doesn’t know how to read the machine, but reading Bruce is easy.

_"The reactor should surge-protect the heart in most configurations, please describe the location and spread pattern of the charge.”_

"It grounded in the reactor," Bruce says, sounding distantly relieved. "Entry point is up by his collarbone. It traveled along the subcutaneous sternal bracing and grounded in the reactor itself. Tony was lucky." He moves again at last, feeling very gently around the periphery of the burn, gauging the swelling and trying to tell if there is deeper damage. There's not much they can do about it right now; they can hardly ask Tony if the inside of his throat is burned, even when he wakes up again.

The arc reactor itself Bruce doesn't touch, though he brings his face very close and stares at it from a number of angles. It looks unchanged to Clint.

" _Monitor his heart rate closely, but I believe we are safe; Sir took a lightning bolt to the chest during the Stuttgart mission, to no ill effects.”_

Clint relaxes with a shudder, shaking tension out of his shoulders like a dog shaking water off. Bruce nods tightly, not quite so relieved, and keeps looking.

They all turn away, granting at least a little privacy, when Bruce covers Tony's chest back up and moves on to examine his lower abdomen and legs. From the quick glances Clint had gotten when Tony stripped off his wet clothes and flashed them earlier, he'd had no visible injuries there except for deep red-and-purple bruises on his knees. From Bruce's composure when he's all done and tucks the blanket securely back around Tony's feet, he finds nothing either.

He'd almost forgotten that the thing Tony was lying against was _Steve_ , but the enormous, gusty sigh he heaves when Bruce backs off physically shifts Tony's limp torso. Clint rescues the empty MRE packet when Steve drops it, apparently done scraping at it for scraps with a tiny spoon he'd produced from somewhere. He has no idea where the spoon's gone; he looked away for a second, and it's vanished.

Steve fusses over the blanket, tucking it in around Tony and inadvertently uncovering his own feet.

He makes the _worst_ sad face, and Clint creaks to his feet to grab something else warm and cozy. "Oh hey," he realizes once he's up, "there's no reason for you guys to sleep on the ramp. How about this nice bunk?" The bunks are tucked between the cockpit and the cargo section, three stacked on top of each other in their own compartments. Clint slides the lowermost one open and dims the lights inside; it might be too small and enclosed for Steve to feel comfortable, or it might feel hidden and secure. Either way, if they can get their lost boys away from the ramp hatch, it'll be easier for Rhodey and Thor to come in.

Steve looks...dubious? It’s hard to tell, because he’s keeping an eye on everyone, but he does flick his eyes over the tiny cubby. It’s barely single-bed sized, but there’s pillows and a mattress. Clint backs off, making sure there’s plenty of open space between Steve and the bunk, but that’s not what gets him moving in the end. A rustling thump, and a spill of brightly coloured beans over the blanket grabs Steve’s attention.

Clint grins and backs up into Natasha’s personal space to exchange an impressed shoulder-check. Steve looks over at them as if to say he knows what she’s up to, but she’s just flawlessly unrepentant, and Steve gathers Tony up and stands. Tony’s a limp armful, all joints and too-long limbs, and his IV isn’t done yet so Bruce has to follow hastily, but Steve obviously knows Tony’s dimensions pretty exactly. No heads or toes are harmed in the operation.

And then, after Tony is inserted in the bunk, Steve follows. Of course. And pulls the extra blankets in after him.

"I did not think two people could fit in that bunk," Clint says. "Not that I, personally, have tried." The recessed lights inside are pretty much all obscured by blanket; there's busy rustling, then quiet and the glint of Steve's eyes. Bruce hooks the IV bag to the lip of the bunk above and retreats, unbothered by how the tube just disappears into the crazy hamster nest that Clint apparently invited Steve to make.

"Protip? Don't try to fit two people and a bow," Natasha murmurs. Clint snugs his bow closer and draws tear tracks down his face.

“Rhodey, JARVIS? We’re getting towards crunch time, but I would like to update my estimate; I think Tony will stay asleep pretty well for a little while, on his own,” Bruce says into his comm. Clint retreats to a seat, where he can still watch for movement, and unstrings his bow. There’s no place for him in this conversation, but he’s still gonna pay attention. Maybe he should update his medical proxy; they’re taking it so seriously.

 _“Col. Rhodes and I are in agreement,”_ JARVIS says, with War Machine’s background noise under his voice. _“Sir should be lightly sedated, with the intent of allowing him to sleep through maneuvers once the tranquilizer wears off.”_

Bruce takes a deep breath and nods, though they can't see it unless JARVIS is riding the cameras right now. "All right," he says. "Does Tony have adverse reactions to any of the drug classes this jet carries?" It's a tactful way to phrase _do you have a preference?_

 _"50mg Diphenhydramine, IV, should be sufficient, with minimal side effects,"_ JARVIS says. _"When Sir can be induced to take nighttime pain relief after an injury, he has found it effective."_

"Nyquil?"Bruce asks, incredulous.

_"Not specifically, but its use was indicated by an encounter with that formulation, yes."_

Clint is not going to forget this exchange, no sir.

"Alright. I'll titrate it down his IV, can you calculate the rates for me? He's at six ounces, and running at full bore."

Clint tunes them out, watching Steve watch Bruce.

The sharp glint of his irises are thin, pupils blown now he's in a comfy dark space, but Clint doesn't doubt for a second that Steve is all there, in a way that Tony wasn't quite. Turning the gun Tony had partially disassembled over in his mind, he pictures the missing part, trying to fathom what had pissed him off about it. Because it had been anger, unreasonable. Unlike Steve's reaction to his dextrose, which was one hundred percent resigned affront--

Oh. The weapon was Hammertech, SHIELD issue, he realises, and the missing pieces of his and Nat's guns both had the logo stamped into the metal.

Clint grins, puzzle solved, then instinctively twitches his head left.

A jellybean bounces off the bulkhead between passengers and cabin. A snort of not-quite laughter issues from the bunk and Clint can't help but bluster jokingly.

"Oh, I see how it is, you twer--" Another bean hits him in the mouth, and he doesn't avoid it this time; it's one of the disgusting popcorn ones, weirdly salty, but he chews anyway because food sharing is food sharing. Maybe he should grab another MRE.

\----------------

Steve-smell, thick and deep. Blankets. Warm Steve.

Too warm. Tony wriggles until there is air and he is cooler. A hand on his wrist, an almost-unnoticeable ache in his forearm; he tries to open his eyes but they close again immediately, and sleep is so sweet, impossible to resist. He lets his hand fall limply and he's gone again.


	2. No One Lives in a Vacuum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still drugged and really thoroughly feral, Tony and Steve make it home.  
> Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our copy and paste copied _too_ well...!  
>  Thank you to the readers who pointed it out, and sorry for the erroneous chapter 2 wordcount on the initial notification. The chapter text is all fixed now.

"Cap and Iron Man have been successfully transferred from the jet to the Hulk room," Rhodey reports with relief, snugging his helmet and one gauntlet under his arm. Clint watches as he pulls a bandana from around his neck and scrubs his face and head with it. Yeah, rubbing your face with your hands wouldn't appeal if you have big metal hands, possibly debris-dirty, possibly dinged-up and sharp.

_"How are they settling in?"_

Clint toggles his comm on. "I have eyes on them. Steve is checking things over, Tony is stirring -- he’s pretty floppy.” Tony rolls off Steve’s lap in a tumble of loose joints and vaguely piles himself on the padded floor, feet and hands underneath him. 

Clint grins. “And he is up! Sort of wobbly, not inspiring much confidence there, o fearless 2IC-- annd, Tony's down again," he reports. "Looks like he went for the largest pillow pile, good aim Iron Man." Tony has collided with a giant purple cushion and slid-rolled down its side into a tumble of letter-and-number fabric shapes. The brightly-colored pillows shift and tumble, resettling around their new occupant, while Steve sits on the floor by Tony’s exposed feet, looking baffled and squishing a large red H between his palms.

“I'd say, give them an hour or two to get used to the space and for the sedatives to wear off before anyone else goes in.” Clint watches as Tony jerks his head back up and blearily tries to focus on his surroundings: he made it to the pile, but he feels too exposed to sleep there. Clint would feel the same. “We should keep the team presence low-key and stay just in the couch area, maintain SOP for the Hulk room. Ah. Tony is now aiming for one of the bolt holes.”

_“Copy on SOP. They can have overnight to rest up, I’ll bring a DVD once I've dealt with all the fallout,”_ Natasha promises from somewhere upstairs. _“Bruce, any word yet on what they were dosed with?"_

_"War Machine sent preliminary data ahead to JARVIS and he pulled in some bio experts at SHIELD as well as Hank McCoy; they're in contact with the cleanup and med team SHIELD has on-site at the AIM base. Now that I'm here with the actual samples we should know more soon, but I'm going to go ahead and say it has a long half-life."_

_"Because it's still affecting Steve,"_ Natasha says.

_"Yes. Its effects on him appear to be idiosyncratic, but with his roughly fourfold metabolic rate I would expect it to wear off completely much sooner than it will with Tony. That we haven't seen any change with Steve yet indicates at least several days for Tony."_

“We should get some more food in there,” Clint muses, only half paying attention. 

“What is with you and feeding these guys today?” Rhodey asks, the armour clattering as he, comically, puts one hand on his hip.

“I-- can’t you see it?” Clint asks, screwing his face up because _duh_. Tony should be going back to sleep, with how tired he looks, but he’s squirming around and making a brief appearance out of his Hulk-sized pillow-fort’ed bolt hole. Steve should be all over him, but he’s stalking around, sniffing at things. It’s obvious. “They’re not... hm.” Clint isn’t sure how to explain it, his vocab is great but this is weird as fuck. “They’re _more_ of themselves, right? Like what Bruce was saying. The crazyjuice didn't put stuff there that wasn't there before. What does Tony usually do when he’s hungry?” 

“...Ignore it?”

“Right. No! He _avoids_ thinking about it until it goes away. He chooses whether he stops to eat or keeps working. He needs to have that choice, to control that stuff, right? Or he gets all--” He makes a fluttery gesture that half the conversation can’t see and fails to find the right words. “He can’t do that right now.” 

Rhodey makes a face. "Yeah, he chooses it when I sit his ass down, put a meal under his nose, and don't let him wander off until he eats something.”

“You or Steve. Look at _Steve_ , he’s all there, he’s only in there because he thinks it's good for Tony.” 

" _Did you miss the part where he’s feral, drugged-up and mute?”_ Natasha doesn't mince words. _"He's not capable of being Cap right now, or even of using a knife and fork."_

“He used a spoon, though,” Clint points out, grinning at the observation window. “Steve doesn’t need to talk to _talk_ , have you ever felt his disappointed face? Because wow. He couldn't give a press conference, sure, but I get the sense he's thinking of this like a vacation.”

_"Huh,"_ Bruce and Nat both say at once.

“Rhodey, what’s Tony’s favorite food? I mean, out of all that sushi haute cuisine bullshit, what's his actual go-to shitty day food?” Clint asks. 

“Burgers. Pickles, onion, salad, melted cheese and a beef burger, no bacon, extra mayo.” 

Clint wrinkles his nose, because _extra mayo?_ “Alright. Be back in ten minutes, someone chuck a few water bottles in there while I’m gone!” 

Before he turns his comm off, he catches Bruce wondering about pod-people and mind altering drugs. He grins and clicks the comm to the emergency frequency, in-only, and takes the express elevator down to street level.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Food_. 

Steve can smell it coming, wisps of fatty-toasty bread smell coming through the door. 

Tony has trouble with lids, his hands stiff and sore after digging through a stone wall, but Steve has coaxed two bottles of water (small, handsized, convenient) down his throat, with extra incentive kisses. He smells better now, lights don't seem to hurt him. Now is a good time to feed him.

Steve likes soft-hulk-space. It smells like Bruce, faint but pervasive, and also smells like _team_ around the couch where they watch movies, and feels _safe_. Tony made it to be safe.

It’s enclosed, locked. But he knows the code, his fingers know the codeshape, though the numbers behind the grill look like random mishmashes of lines. So it’s safe, and in here Tony can’t get away from him and hide in the trees like a racoon.

Steve does not approve of people who hide in trees like racoons, Bucky.

But Tony is here and will stay here, as long as there is food and warm and Steve --unlike Bucky, who needs other, scarier things -- and there are burgers he can smell them! 

Steve makes a mouth-noise in demand, but he can’t make it mean anything more than ‘want,’ any more than he can make the mouthsounds coming from the speakers mean anything more than ‘reassure, calm, soon.’ Frustrating. 

A door opens, and it is... the shape of the sound of the name is on the tip of his tongue, a sound like high shoes on hard floor, and then like the cocking of a hammer. But it doesn't come out and he blows a big disgusted sigh instead. The food smells good, better than in the metalboxbird, and Tony will want it a LOT. But Tony won't come out, not now that he has found a good hiding place, a good safe place where he can watch.

But Clint simply sets the food down, smiles with no teeth, and leaves again. He will watch through the window but Steve doesn't mind that.

Food smell. Burger smell. Steve whines. He won't eat unless Tony eats too. He paces and whines loudly, and goes searching; Tony is not behind the pillow pile where he thought he was, Tony is in a space under a thing some distance removed, where he can see the feet of anyone around the door but they are too tall to see him. That is a very good hiding place, better to keep it secret. Steve circles around and approaches from another direction, finding his own hole in the space under the thing, and burrows into the pillows there until only his foot is visible. There, Tony has to come take care of him now.

He whines, and it’s not even on purpose; he's just so hungry!

But Tony must be hungrier, because it is a LONG time since bread-and-butter in the dank-dark. He tells Tony to fix it, because he feels worse imagining Tony hungry than he does from his own angry belly. He wriggles into the pillows more, breathing deep the team-couch-movies smell, and sighs loud enough to be heard. 

The pillow by his shoulder shifts and there is the irritated _clickclick_ of a tongue as Tony appears, knocking off poof and making himself space under Steve’s arm. Steve wraps around him, wants to hold and keep, but the food is alllll the way over there, and Tony should _get it_. And stop being hungry at Steve. 

So he squeezes once, then nudges Tony towards the food. Even Tony will be able to smell it now, and Steve’s mouth is very wet with wanting it. Tony looks at him with big sad eyes, but Steve is bigger and sadder and wants Tony to _eaaaaat._

Tony bites him, just gently on the shoulder, and gnaws thoughtfully on him. It doesn’t hurt, the muscle there is big and tough, and Tony is thoughtful and also mouth-wet hungry. 

And Steve is so hungry too. He gnaws very gently on Tony's neck, more tongue and lips than teeth, and his stomach rumbles. He pleads, one long rising-falling sound, then goes limp-heavy on Tony’s shoulder. This is no substitute for food.

A deep sigh and Tony shoves him off. He wriggles and crawls and huffs and sighs, like it is SUCH a long way ALL THAT WAY to get the food, but when he leaves their safe space he is quick and decisive, staying behind cover as much as he can and watching the door for a long minute before he darts out and picks up the bag and works his way back. And then Steve is sitting up and reaching and _please_ , _eat_. 

The bag tears and the papers inside rustle; he uses them to keep the pillows clean, and Tony watches with his thumbnail between his teeth. He doesn’t quite trust the smell to be true, Steve can tell, and it makes him sad. 

Tony’s heart doesn’t trust anything. It beats too fast at hands, at water, at whistles, at stone walls... Steve can protect it though, push away the hands and the strange noises and the smell of wet stone, and Tony will be safe and able to eat. 

He arranges the food and pushes pillows until the space is enclosed. These walls protect, Tony could push them down with a finger, tumble out and away if _small-confined_ was worse than _close-protect_ , but he won’t. Steve can pull him close, and Tony is stiff and unsure but lets him, until they are tangled up in each other’s smells. It’s comfortable and warm, much better than the not-trust in the cell, before Steve had seen how Tony didn’t recognise, couldn’t see. He doesn’t have the shield-protect in here, he hung it outside because it is HARD and in here is SOFT, but there is a round pillow, and he pats it while Tony squirms out his discomfort. Steve thinks he was Not Allowed to sit on people, but Steve will show him he is.

Steve needs it, it makes _his_ heart beat slower.

Slowly and with lots of rumbling growling purring to soothe him, Tony goes soft and pliant again, watching the food from the corner of his eye. Steve doesn’t know why it is taking so long when Tony took the bread-and-butter from him much more quickly, until he remembers proving the bread-and-butter was safe. He thinks he should have thought of it sooner, and picks up a burger.

It is _so good._

Meat (twice!) and cheese and _crispy_ and salt and it is delicious, he could eat three! But he stops and chews and makes happy sounds because he just can’t help it and offers it to Tony, too-still in his lap.

Tony licks the meat and some of the mayo, and shakes, pressing back against Steve as a tremor shoots through him. Steve makes a worried noise and nuzzles into Tony's hair to sniff and wonder what is wrong but then Tony is eating very fast. He bites the burger around Steve's fingers, hand on his wrist to hold it steady, and it is gone in under a minute. Steve mourns the loss even while Tony is licking his fingers clean, and his whining lasts until Tony shoves another paper-wrapped burger in his face and unwraps his own, ripping the paper neatly. When he swallows painfully and curls up around a too-large bite Steve puts a bottle of water in his hand, and after that Tony slows down a bit.

Steve eats his fill. He has had food not so long ago, so it doesn't take as much as it would otherwise, and he recognizes that the sharp pangs and the sleepiness now are from his body healing. When there is one burger left Tony stares at it and vibrates. He is probably still hungry, but too much at once and he will get sick; but it is food and cannot, must not be wasted. Steve nudges the paper bag toward Tony. The burger should keep for at least a few hours in there. He turns his head and lets his eyes close, feigning complete disinterest as Tony claims the last burger and wraps it up and hides it, shoulders stiff and anxious again. Steve will avoid that area, so that Tony's food is not threatened, so that Tony can relax.

Sad. It makes Steve sad, angry, that Tony is so afraid. In the dank-dark cell it made sense, here it is... 

Different. He remembers Tony forgetting to eat many times, not caring about food, and now this? Not right. Maybe Tony doesn't know what to feel, or how to feel hungry. Frustration scrunches Steve's face up, making his head ache just a little; he wants his words back so he can _think_ properly.

He feels Tony come close in the way the pillows dent, and rolls soft-sleepy-loose-limbed towards him. Tony makes a cage out of Steve's arms and legs and wriggles inside, putting Steve's hands over his waist and under his head. Steve likes it, it's comfy, and Tony is safe.

Even if Tony wriggles a LOT, and knees him usually each time, by accident Steve is sure. Tony turns himself over, his back to Steve's chest, and that would be better except for the sharp elbows. Steve heaves a great breath and pulls Tony to him snugly, fitting himself in the curves and angles of Tony's body, no room for the elbows to gain momentum now, with the especially dangerous upper one tucked into Steve's armpit. Tony stretches luxuriously, and then tension finally ebbs out of him, and Steve is gone and floating away on sweet sleep before he can notice whether Tony is asleep too.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the morning, Steve _plots_. 

They’d woken up from their happy-warm long sleep only when they were hungry again, and Steve can tell that Tony is hurting; small pain in his fingertips, more in his chest. He’s curled up in the pillows, half under them, half on Steve, and he’s a good temperature, but Steve still wants to make sure his burn does not go bad.

Steve is healed, all. Not a twinge left except for vague, familiar hunger. So he is plotting. 

Cream for fingers and chest, and food. But not just Steve-feed-Tony, Steve wants his friends to feed Tony too, because Tony is safe with them and he should know it. But that would mean letting Tony get very hungry, and Steve can’t stand the idea, it makes him squish Tony further into the pillows, where it is safe. 

Tony whines at him, half awake, and there should be coffee somewhere. 

Steve should get Tony coffee. It’s familiar, he’s done it a lot, but this is the Hulk’s space, and he doesn’t know if the Hulk is a coffee drinker at all. There is no smell of coffee, and he smelled everywhere earlier.

Coffee must be outside. How to get coffee.

Steve studies the door, studies the chickenscratches in the grid underneath, too small for Hulk fingers. Easier to do with his eyes closed, not looking at the scratches that twist and bend and don't make sense, so he closes his eyes and presses in the right shape and the door seal pops open, new air _new smells_. Ooooh new smells.

Tony is sitting straight up in the safe shadows, watching him, worried; he whines high and thin when Steve slips outside, so Steve leaves the door open. He will come back soon.

Coffee. And burn cream. Two ways to get to coffee. Ride the...box, or stairs. He chooses stairs, and JUMPS down a flight at a time. Why doesn't he do this all the time!

He comes out into the kitchen and there is COFFEE, already made, smell filling the room. There is also Pepper, floral scent and sun-on-hair, standing up from the couch with a squeak. 

Pepper! What to do. He freezes, and she sees that and comes to greet him instead. Her hands smell like coffee, she is the helpful person who made it, it is her. Her hands are small and soft, warmer than the air on his shoulders, though the air isn’t cold. 

Touching _touching_ is amazing, he loves it, and his face is SMILING and Pepper is good at it.He lifts her hands, because they are so small and strong and lovely, and puts them to his face for nuzzling and smelling the good smell on them. She goes pink, and he likes that too; today is full of nice things. Things he should share with Tony. 

That means... Mug. Cupboard.

He lets her go and looks for the mug with the cat. It is Tony’s colors, and he is like a grumpy cat in the mornings, do not attempt tummy rubs! He finds the mug, puts it on the counter. Need to...pour. It is unexpectedly hard to aim, but he only spills a little, so he sets the coffee pot down on the floor and looks for another mug.

Pepper hands him one. This one is plastic, with a lid, oh, good idea. He pulls the lid off, and it goes bouncing around somewhere behind the kitchen island. She laughs, and says "oh" and some other mouth sounds, and stands up to get it while he pours. Better to spill on the floor, yes. Whoops.

It doesn’t reach his feet, but he shuffles back anyway; he doesn’t want it between his toes, that's a waste, it’s for _drinking_. He looks at Pepper, because she is a fixer of things, sets the pot back down, and pushes it toward her with his best sad look. She makes the loveliest happy laughing, eyes all crinkled up, and touches him again. It’s nice enough to make up for spilling some coffee. 

He needs cream, too, or the coffee will be bitter-sharp even if it’s Pepper’s, so he goes hunting in the big coolbox. Always cold, still a marvel. This time he gives it straight to Pepper, who is pouring at the counter. Cream is precious too, thick and filling and he _would_ drink it, it would be delicious, but it is supposed to go in coffee not in Steve.

Shame. 

She somehow carries THREE mugs -- he can’t see how she is doing it -- and puts them on the island before getting his attention. Frustrating, really frustrating, that the words she makes are complete fucking nonsense. He bites his lip because sorry but he doesn’t know what a hissingteeth sound then a round mouth sound _mean_. But then she looks and Steve follows her eyes and--

_Oh! Food!_

Bananas and apples and others, big and small, red and yellow and orange, all in a convenient bowl for carrying; he picks it up and she smiles. Great, can they go now? Tony is on his own. Oh, but wait, he needs to find the sharp-smelling stuff for Tony's fingertips and chest, he knows where it is.

He can be quick, and motions ‘wait’ while he nips into the white-hardfloor-- bathroom! To fetch it.

She looks baffled, so he shows her the tube before stashing it in his pocket and grabbing the bowl of fruit. Pepper takes him to the box that goes UP, then, and he looks at the stairs, but...you cannot jump up whole flights of stairs. Can you? He tests his ankles and bunches his thighs enough to bounce on his toes. You can. But, the fruit would not stay in the bowl, he thinks. It would be fun only as long as the food is not wasted, and the bowl doesn't have a lid like the (excellent convenient) mug.

Tony will like that Steve brought him coffee. Almost as much as he will like that Steve brought him Pepper.

The door is still open, and Steve shoulders it open more to lead Pepper in. Tony is hiding. Steve puts the bowl down and goes to find him, and Pepper carries all the mugs to the couch and the coffee table, although she leaves the bowl of fruit where Steve put it on the floor. She drinks her coffee and watches. This is acceptable, her gaze is acceptable on Tony.

Even for Pepper, Tony is hiding. The smell of coffee is a big attraction, but he is hiding. She is safe and kind and friendly enough to be no threat in a fight, not that Steve thinks Tony ever would fight her, but Tony is still...

Hiding. 

There, green pillow with feet. Pillows don't have human feet, and they don't make whining wanting noises either. The toes curl and wriggle against each other until they go still, curled up tight.

Steve waits, crouched on his haunches, while a deep sniff raises the pillow up-up! and then down again as the pillow sighs. So put upon, Tony. Steve grins as feet disappear, and a head pops out the other side instead. 

“T--uurtle,” Steve says at the big green pillow balanced briefly on Tony’s back, then wonders why that thought connects to that sound; when he tries to remember how to say it, he can't. Tony is disdainful at the sounds and at Steve's teasing, nose UP, and shakes off the pillow to stare long and hard at Pepper. 

Steve creeps closer and tugs at Tony's hand. His fingers are lined with brown -- dry blood -- and the dark colors of bruises. Not _bad,_ but Steve doesn't like it. Tony lets him put cream on them, but doesn't let him pull his shirt up to see to the burn. A deep breath because he is _worried_ and he lets Tony go without making a fuss. He will... Later. Try again. He keeps the tube of medicine in his pocket.

But it reminds him, he can't make Tony come. Tony will come when _he_ decides, so Steve scoots back to the bowl of fruit to put it where it goes. For a moment, he can’t remember where it goes, but then he sees the coffee mugs on the table and that seems right.

Bananas, apples, and the others; he digs through. Large unfamiliar red-and-yellow fruit that smells like resin. And grapes! He does not trust the bananas or the resin fruit, but grapes and apples, excellent. Tony likes the resin-fruit, although Steve thinks the skin of it is not good to eat so it would have to be peeled, and he would rather just pretend it isn't there. Tony also likes coffee. He should not still be hiding when there is coffee.

But he is no longer near the place where they slept, and Steve can't see him. He turns sad eyes on Pepper, because he is _sorry_ for scaring Tony off, but she doesn’t seem to mind so much. He eats his apple and itches to drink the coffee he won't, will not touch until Tony appears.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"If you think this is the first time Tony's hidden from me, I don't know what Shangri-La you're living in inside your head," Pepper tells Steve. "Just wait, and he'll come around. Acting like it was his idea, too."

Steve looks at her bright-eyed, not understanding more than a word in ten although he flicks a glance somewhere off to the side when she says 'Tony.' He looks back at her and copies the way she sits, perching himself on the couch and then crossing his legs, making a pleased "hm!" when it's easier to hold the cup while sitting up like this. He doesn't drink, though, just puts his nose in the coffee steam and inhales.

"Oh hon," she says. "You've got it bad, don't you? It'll just get cold if you wait."

He sighs deeply. This is probably the best relationship conversation they've ever had, and he’s not even blushing.

She puts her coffee down for a second. If she knows Tony, she suspects he's in a place where he needs to be shown things to believe them -- not understanding speech, and not really remembering -- so she puts a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder, then slides it across his back in a distant cousin of the yawn-and-stretch. Steve shifts down in the couch to let her, and puts his head casually on her shoulder in a trusting, unashamed way that is heartbreakingly naked. 

She started the gesture thinking about Tony, but she finishes it for Steve, warm and relaxed against her side. She gives him a brief squeeze for comfort, then goes back to her coffee, arm trapped by his head. He’s heavy. She’s pretty sure there’s no way she’s moving without his permission. 

“T- Tuh.” 

It’s the second time he’s tried to speak since she got shanghaied into this strange breakfast dance, Bruce will be thrilled.

“I know, Stevie. He’s such a downer.”

She freezes at a huff of displeasure from _behind the couch._ How on earth had he gotten back there without them noticing? Steve, of course, lights up like it’s his birthday and twists around. 

Pepper carefully doesn't look, but there's a distinctly wet sound and she doesn't doubt for a second that they're kissing over her shoulder. There may even be some biting involved, because that sounds very much like teeth over three days of stubble, oh my. She sips her coffee and ignores the heat spreading on her cheeks. She can't remember the last time she blushed.

Somehow Steve negotiates his coffee into Tony's hand, freeing her arm in the process, then takes the third cup for himself. Deliberate food-vetting by Steve; there's something significant there. She muses on it while Tony prods and pokes at the couch like it might bite him, a deeply dissatisfied expression on his face. She can see the moment he decides that she is okay from the way his eyes dart sideways at her ankles, then her face, and that's all the warning she gets before he's draped over their laps.

Fortunately for Pepper's suit, he plants his rear on Steve and she has his legs, much lighter and less likely to crease her clothes. Tony doesn't spill his coffee either, despite having the open cup. Maybe he's just better at cups than Steve, or maybe...she snorts when she sees the mug is already half empty. Of course. Tentatively, she rests her hand on his bony ankle, sleeve brushing the top of his foot.

He remembers her, at least enough to trust her physically. The glance he darts from her hand to her face to Steve is assessing and sharp, but goes warm and deep and cozy, and he accepts her attentions. It's almost arrogant, like a sultan on a velvet throne, and she squeezes gently in amusement. 

"Okay, we're getting somewhere. Do you feel like talking about it?" She directs it to Steve, of course. Tony is still a long way from words; it's like he's been on a workbinge for a week, only without the exhaustion. But he slumps down onto Steve's shoulder even as she thinks it. He's a little gray, and she would probably have given him juice over coffee, but she isn't going to argue with Steve about Care and Feeding right now, it wouldn't be right.

"Pep."

She twitches in surprise and Steve makes the smuggest smug face at her. Tony has twisted around to look at Steve too, and Steve nuzzles down the side of his face and bites gently under his ear. Tony drops his empty mug next to Pepper's hip and fists his hand in Steve's hair, mouth cracked open but quiet, and Pepper looks away quickly, renewed blush hot along her cheekbones.

Tony's legs tense and then relax, somehow heavier as he drapes bonelessly. When she looks up his eyes are half-closed and Steve is carding through his hair in the way he loves. Steve redirects his attention to her and tries again, forehead creasing in concentration. "Pepp-pp-pp."

"Pepper," she says, watching him. 

He stares at her mouth and copies. "Pep-rrrrrr. Rrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," he tells Tony.

"Rrrrrrr," Tony says sleepily, and yawns.

The reply delights Steve, but the yawn makes him look so conflicted that it’s twisting his face up. For the first time this morning she has no idea what’s going on there, though she's surprised it took this long. She puts the empty coffee mug out of harm's way and pulls the fruit bowl closer, still trying to avoid their overly intimate good mornings. 

The mango is just asking for trouble outside of a full kitchen, juice everywhere, but apples and grapes are a sure bet, with minimal scraps to collect. Although Steve must have eaten his apple core earlier. Somehow that just makes the moment more surreal. Does he normally eat apple cores? Her grandmother did.

“Peprrrrrr,” Steve instructs, going still for a second. A glance shows that he’s withholding head scratches. 

Tony’s copied sound starts with more ‘grr’ than ‘purr’ but he’s making _sounds_ , so she’s not complaining. In fact, she’s going to reward it with grapes. She offers him one on an open palm, not expecting him to take it; she plans to put it on his knee once he’s frozen still, but Steve beats her to the punch. 

_With his mouth_. He bends down and snaffles the offering right off her palm, lips smushing against her skin like a pony after a polo, she can’t handle this, what on _Earth_. He beams at her in gratitude, and then feeds Tony the grape, straight from his mouth.

Two seals fighting over a grape.Oh dear.

“JARVIS, requesting backup in the Hulk room. Bring breakfast food.” 

A green light blinks on in acknowledgment and she relaxes back into the couch, face flaming red. Steve keeps making eyes at her, then at the bunch of grapes, but _no._ “Fetch your own grapes, Steve, I did not sign up for hand-feeding Captain America.” She folds her arms, tucking her hands under her armpits aggrievedly, and Tony smiles at her. It's breathtaking, the way his eyes crinkle up in a true smile.

She smiles back and unfolds enough to pet his ankle. "JARVIS," she says, "is that the first vocal communication between them?"

JARVIS is silent for a moment, then follows her lead, voice soft but clear. _"It is the first attempt to produce specific sounds on Sir's part, although they have been communicating very effectively in a variety of modes, including vocal."_

Both Tony and Steve look up, Steve going so far as to look around for anyone else in the room, but they aren't concerned. "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr," Tony says to the air.

_"Hello, sir."_

Tony smiles, eyes crinkling again, then settles back against Steve, clicking in his throat.

"Was he looking at your camera?"

_"He was,"_ JARVIS says, pleased.

Tony wiggles and grins upside-down at the back of the couch like he's been praised, and Pepper makes a mental note of just how perceptive he is of tone of voice. Steve just pokes a grape into his mouth and distracts him again, though the kiss doesn't last long and Tony concedes to being hand-fed the next morsel instead.

"What do two feral superheroes talk about?" she asks curiously. If anyone can understand Tony and Steve like this, it's JARVIS. His language with Tony has always included gestures and symbolism, words condensed into imagery and exploded into diagrams. Which is a thought; they might be able to ask Tony what he needs with the right diagram.

_"The captain was concerned about Sir's health and badgered him into eating a burger saved from last night, and Sir remained adamant that he was fine and not hungry in the slightest, even while bolting it down."_

She can't help a smile, and puts her hand on the back of Steve's neck, rubbing gently. "So, nothing unusual. They're pretty cute when they're not being obnoxiously in love." 

_"I will take your word for it, Ms Potts. On average the captain is a positive influence on body and mind, a status unchanged by the so-called 'Galt' compound."_

"Of course. I don't think it's changed them much at all." She rubs a little circle on the base of Steve's skull, and he droops like a happy puppy. He fumbles the bunch of grapes as his eyes half close and Tony gets a mischievous look in his eyes that Pepper knows far too well. 

"Except for completely stripping the veneer of civilization, oh my God, Tony, put your bedroom eyes away!" She stops rubbing Steve, puts her palm in front of Tony's face and gently pushes his head back. He licks her palm, then grabs her wrist and smells her more comprehensively. It's the coffee scent on her hands.

_"Um,"_ Bruce says, using the mic from out in the hallway. _"I'm coming in, is that okay?"_

"Please," Pepper says fervently. Tony has dropped her hands and is sitting fully upright, staring at the door. "Tony will probably run, but--"

The door cracks open and Tony flips himself off the couch, crouching half in the shadow of the other couch, between them and the door. A rush of air and Steve is off the couch too, standing on the coffee table and blocking Pepper's view.

"--he should come back," Pepper finishes. "Or maybe he's not hiding this time, and instead he decided to fight you. That's the kind of decision-making I know and love." Tony is growling and it's a little terrifying. His throat isn't made for it and it hurts to listen to.

Bruce falters in the doorway, Pepper can just see the edge of a tray if she leans out from behind Steve's legs. She waves. "I think Steve recognises you, if that helps?" 

"Not so much? It was Tony who bit me." 

"And Steve promptly sedated him, right?" 

Steve crouches abruptly, feet settled strongly above the coffee table's legs. He looks at Pepper, then at Tony, and then slides back onto the sofa and plasters himself over her like an affectionate cat. Half a breath oofs out of her, and she has to hug him before he slides into a compromising position. 

"Any backup for the backup?" Bruce says dubiously. "That is a very distrustful expression Tony's making at me." 

Pepper removes Steve's temple from the side of her left breast and settles him with his ear over her heart. He seems to like it and shifts to listen better. There, one feral Avenger out of two. 

"I'm not going anywhere, sorry Bruce." She rubs at the back of Steve's neck and the noise he makes is obscene. Tony makes a frustrated sound, a let-me-join-in noise, and at least he's not growling any more. "If he bites you again and you Hulk out, you're in the best possible place for it," she offers, not knowing if the reminder will help.

Bruce rubs one eyebrow then stands up a little straighter. "This _is_ my territory," he says thoughtfully. “It probably smells like me, too.” He puts the tray down on the floor partway between the human-sized and hulk-sized zones. Then he steps forward, walking without pause to the couch Tony is behind, not looking at him or seeming to notice him, and sits down. 

Tony backs into the coffee table, then scrambles down to the couch's far end and freezes when Bruce does nothing more aggressive than lie down full-length with a sigh. He looks at Bruce's hairy shins and neat sprawl and flattens himself nearly below knee level, creeping backward.

Bruce turns his head away, brings out a tablet, and starts talking to JARVIS. Tony stops creeping away, head cocked towards JARVIS' voice, then slides forward without moving his feet, balancing on his toes and hands and stretching out his neck to peer at the tablet. Bruce is playing some sort of game, Pepper can just make out the sweeping motion of his fingers by the way his wrist is moving, and Tony looks envious beyond words. He pulls back and rests on his haunches but can't sit still, oscillating in place until the whine in his throat gets loud enough to be audible and he makes a pleading reaching motion for the tablet, though he's still well outside of Bruce's reach. Bruce turns towards the back of the couch a few inches, ignoring him, and Tony whines again, looking to Steve.

Pepper can't really see what's going on with Steve, because the angles are bad and most of her view is golden dandelion fluff, but she feels him laugh and make a 'pppfffft' sound that very clearly, astonishingly so, articulates that Tony is on his own with this one. Pepper rewards good leadership skills as company-wide policy, so she digs her fingers into his hair and scritches his scalp. He sighs blissfully and somehow manages to get _heavier._ How, she has no idea, it's like he's taken a leaf from the Hulk's playbook and been storing mass in an energystate anomaly. She digs an elbow into his ribs until he shifts enough for her to breathe properly.

"I think this experience has really brought Steve and I closer," she says. "Maybe if you're lucky, you can deepen your relationship with Tony too!"

Bruce twists and raises an eyebrow at her. "My relationship with Tony is deep enough."

"Well, I don't think that holding the tablet away from him like that--" Pepper starts. Tony, seeing it droop in Bruce's moment of inattention, leaps in like a snake and snatches the tablet clean out of his hand, then scrambles away. Pepper lets her head fall back against the sofa and laughs at the brief but eloquent glimpse she'd caught of Bruce's face. 

"Sure. Laugh at your backup," Bruce says. "I had a plan for that tablet." 

The grin in his voice makes her look up again and she has the perfect view of the tablet screen, because Tony is shielded from Bruce by the coffee table and Steve's draping legs. The 'game' still running is one of the test apps they use in interviews, a non-verbal reasoning game that involves both social and spatial elements of IQ. 

"Oh, good work Dr. Banner." 

Bruce flaps a hand at her from his slouch, his posture all pulled back in like a snail to his normal level or farther, looking as unthreatening as it is possible to get. Tony is still shooting him leery mistrustful eyes, but they are getting weaker as he...dives into the game's code. The screen has gone from cheery blue-grey to black with reactor-blue code scrolling across it. 

He's not writing anything, though. He goes a whole page without inputting a single correction or improvement, and his knuckles are white on the edge of the tablet. He peels one hand up and touches a block of code that she recognizes as the beginning of a loop, then scrolls down and touches each case inside it, and finally the loop's end. Then he holds the tablet out from himself and turns it sideways and upside down, a full 360°, peering intently.

"Steve, honey, you're needed," she murmurs sadly. Her human blanket lifts himself off her immediately (it doesn't matter that she's cold, he'll hug her any time if she needs it) and drapes over and around Tony's tense shoulders. He unwraps Tony's hands from the edges of the tablet, and lets it drop to the floor. 

"JARVIS, how long did that take?" Bruce asks off to one side of awareness, and J answers in a soothing rumble that makes Tony look up again. Steve has his hands between his own, smushing them palms-together, and Pepper makes a mental note about the way it stills his twitchy fingers.

_"No more than two levels, but he faltered as he encountered abstract symbols and abbreviation. Eye tracking implies that he recognizes the larger structures of the code and assigns extra significance to some words such as 'for' and 'else' statements, but both he and the captain show difficulty in understanding letters or numbers as more than shapes, or speech as more than sounds."_

"Like he's looking at code written in an alien alphabet," Bruce says thoughtfully. "It's consistent with the way the Galt compound seems to isolate parts of the brain that work together; language processing and planning take a lot of different centers."

Tony isn't listening, of course; he's been giving Bruce a long look as he decides one more time that Bruce is not going to come after him for the tablet. Usually this would be followed by further aggravating whoever it is until they do come after him, but this time he twitches out of Steve's hands and picks up the tablet again, navigating out of the code view in a series of swipes too quick to follow and landing on a screen that shows every symbol and picture in the app, including several rows of icons that Pepper could swear aren't used anywhere. Steve, Pepper, and Bruce all perk up in interest.

"Debug view of all the image resources," Bruce says. "He remembers the backdoor to get there."

JARVIS pipes in: _“The backdoor is gestural, as is nearly all UI navigation on StarkTab operating systems. The Captain also appears able to recall gesture sequences of some length; when he left earlier, he opened the code-locked door with his master override. With his eyes closed.”_

Pepper can’t help but laugh, getting a glinting glance shot at her by Steve. She would almost think he can understand them, and maybe she should assume he can.

Tony finds a triangular yellow caution symbol with an exclamation point in it and presses it five times, hard. He follows with a jumble of negative icons: a broken CD, anything with a big red 'X' in it, a radiation symbol, a sickly-green woozy face with 'x's for eyes, a curvy road warning sign, a stop sign. He likes the stop sign a lot.

Steve reaches out and carefully selects the triangular orange BUMP road warning sign. Tony twists around and stares at him. Steve looks placidly back and chooses the hot springs label, which looks like steam lines rising from a bowl. Then a rainbow.

Tony bites him. Steve bites back, right at the juncture of Tony's neck and shoulder, and Tony squeaks and drops the tablet, right into Steve's hand. Steve dances away with it, scuttling improbably to his feet and over the back of the couch, away into the Hulk soft-play jungle of pillows, leaving Pepper breathless and rumpled on the suddenly-vacant couch. 

Tony is off after him like a shot, yelling a wordless vowel-sound.

“This is a fascinating insight into his leadership style,” Pepper comments as Steve makes a loop, tablet still held well out of Tony’s reach, towards the additional breakfast food Bruce brought up.

“I was prepared to settle for no biting bystanders," Bruce admits. "This is good. Better than I was worried.”

Steve manages to acquire some sort of pastry from the tray and eats half of it before pushing the rest at Tony; the tables turn, and Steve is racing after Tony instead, pastry held like a weapon. It doesn’t take long before Tony stops running away and snatches it from him instead. He carries it to a defensible nook to eat it slowly, growling if Steve approaches, and Steve has lost or hidden the tablet somewhere in the meantime.

Steve doesn’t seem perturbed by the growling and gives up pretty quickly, circling back to the food. Pepper straightens herself out, determined _not_ to be flattened again before she can escape to the boardroom (not a phrase used lightly, and a hug from Steve will be very welcome after she’s done with the meeting). 

Steve offers her a slice of buttered toast _and a napkin._ Pepper thanks him gravely.

Once she’s finished eating it under Steve’s disturbingly patient watch, Tony comes out of nowhere and barrels into Steve’s side, sending them both sprawling onto the floor. Steve’s up and grinning without even stopping, and Tony scrambles to climb him like a monkey, but Steve’s already heading off again. Goodness. She knew Tony was in shape, but he's in _good_ shape, not wiped out and panting the way most men his age would be after running around this way. He's going like the Energizer bunny, taking the restless energy she's had reason to curse in other situations and spending it harmlessly. It's not a bad thing, and she can see Steve is to thank for it.

Enough of that, or she'll have to redo her makeup. Slightly buttery, and with suspicious crumbs on her skirt, Pepper takes the chance to slip out. 

“You’ll be okay for a while, Bruce?” 

Bruce looks only _slightly_ nervous. “Sure. What’s the worst that could happen.” 

Pepper doesn’t give that the answer it deserves, and pats him on the head on her way past. “You’ll be fine, Brucie. I’m sure the others will turn up in due course.”

She leaves him draped as unthreateningly as he can manage on his couch, watching two ridiculous full grown men play like puppies.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tony is _filthy._

There’s whipped cream in his hair, a great big swatch of dust adhering to his shirt and pants, and Clint has no idea what the grey-green slime he’s lamenting about is from. It’s all over his foot, and Clint watches with horrified fascination as Tony spreads his toes as far as they’ll go and the goop slides off with a disgusting pulpy _splat_. 

“It’s a grape,” Bruce says from a very un-Brucelike slouch on one of the people-sized couches. 

“That is an ex-grape. It’s practically wine. Not that...” Clint makes a face about the very thought, and Tony darts off towards the Hulk-sized soft blocks. Steve makes a flying leap off the top of one well before Tony is in reach, but then turns and meets him head-on with some sort of pinning maneuver. 

“I seriously did not need to know Tony is that bendy, what the hell,” Clint adds as Tony twists out of the armbar and gets his legs locked around Steve’s waist to (briefly) turn the tide. Tony gives a stuttering whine as Steve comprehensively squishes him, then very obviously taps out, and collapses in a heap as Steve rolls half-off him. They're both panting, even Steve, which is impressive. Go Tony.

“They’ve been at it for almost an _hour_ , Clint. I can’t even tell if they’ve been having sex because _the noises._ ”

Clint sympathises. If he didn't have eyes on them right now, he would be deeply suspicious. “If they do--, y’know. Should we let them? Spray them with cold water? What exactly is the protocol here?” 

Bruce sits up, his hair all fluffed up on one side from being rubbed against the couch. “You think it’d be a problem?” 

“Dunno, pre-established relationship and all. Pretty sure SHIELD protocol would be to lock them in a broom closet and let the higher power of their choice sort it out.” Steve has spotted him, and he and Clint have a brief staring contest.

"Phil has a thing about consent though," Clint continues, after he wins. (Due to Tony interference. Fast recovery.) "Do you think they could both… you know, consent?"

"We could ask them," Bruce says.

"Really? I don’t want to give ‘em any ideas... I mean, if they haven’t thought about it." Clint hops over the back of the couch, and Tony and Steve continue wrestling in filthy, vocal peace behind him. 

Bruce grimaces. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I am almost, almost willing to accept the hypothesis that the idea hasn't occurred to Tony yet." They both look back at their first and second in command. Romping.

"That looks like so much fun," Clint says wistfully.

"Anyway," Bruce drags the conversation back, “Tony won’t go anywhere without Steve, and he wants to get clean -- he’s doing that foot thing again, he doesn't like that his foot is sticky now -- and I can't think of any situation where the question does not come up once Tony and Steve are naked in a shower together.” 

Clint considers this and it’s a testament to the difficulty of the question that he actually grins when he comes up with an answer. “Radioactive decon. Bam.”

Bruce is unimpressed, and fishes out a tablet from under the couch. “I’m not making them shower cold, Tony’s not back to top condition yet.” 

Incredulous, Clint twists around to peer at the pair. They’re still going, chasing and catching and tumbling over each other and the soft blocks. He focuses in on Steve rather than Tony, because if there is one thing Tony does with all his genius, it’s look fine when he’s not. But Steve always knows, and there’s a soft care around his eyes that supports Bruce’s statement. He’s not pushing Tony (harder faster stronger), he’s just teasing him along. Working off the energy rather than goading him into working out. He’s worried.

Sure, only worried a little bit, but Clint remembers glinting blue irises peering out from a bunk on a quinjet, guarding the somnolent body invisible but for an IV’ed hand. 

“You know, Bruce, I think they’d be fine?” 

“Well, we’ve got more important things to communicate, anyway,” Bruce replies, and flips the tablet in his direction.

There’s a cartoon brain on the tablet screen, ‘talking’ in 32 pt font, and Clint tries to snort quietly. It catches Steve’s attention, and he walks over, unaffected by Tony’s full body weight hanging over his left shoulder, where he’s clinging and also looking at the screen. They disentangle when they reach the couch, and Tony skirts the far side from Clint while Steve obviously recognises him a little more clearly. Eh, he’ll take what he can get, and Tony’s a skittish little shit even when he trusts you with his shiny metal ass.

Bruce waves the tablet around, then fingerpaints a big red X over the speech bubble.

Tony gives the screen a long look, and then looks down, shoulders bunching in places Clint wasn’t aware he _had_ muscles. Steve bumps up close in an obvious attempt at comfort, and mimes covering his own mouth then flicking his hand away. It’s no sign language Clint’s ever seen, though, Steve’s just... throwing away words? 

Tony bares his teeth and makes a slashing gesture, decidedly displeased.

“Okay, I’m taking that to mean they’re aware of the effects. Clint?”

Clint shrugs. “Sure. It’s pretty obvious Tony’s frustrated as fuck. When else does he go to the gym?”

“That’s a good point. I overlook, sometimes, how perceptive you are.” Bruce sounds cheered, like observation comforts his inner scientist. Clint just shrugs again; it's not important. 

The next image Bruce puts together is of a security keypad and a book. He gets their hosts' attention, then scribbles over the numbers on the keypad and the book’s title. Steve winces and reaches over to scribble over the author’s name too. 

“Okay, good. So you know what it is you’re not getting, that’s useful.” Bruce does it again, this time stopping Steve from responding. Tony also has hatred for the text, choosing a bright red from a drop-down box Clint hadn’t seen. 

“Thanks,” Bruce mutters, like Tony can understand him. “right, don’t go to the source code this time, okay? Steve first." He offers the tablet, and it's open to a simple game: card matching. 

Steve takes it and tentatively starts matching, looking up at Bruce every few seconds. He manages the Aces and royal cards no problem, fails at a nine, ten and eight, but sails through the lower numbers just fine. He matches suits almost faster than Clint can _see._

Tony watches the screen like it holds the secret of life.

“Alright, Tony’s turn.”

Tony picks it up and starts with no hesitation, no glances at Bruce; he understands the purpose here. He can do the royals too, and matches suits, but fails to match numbers when the cards are all the same suit. Clint seriously has no idea what that means, but Tony obviously _does_. It’s awful to watch him crumple in on himself, his desultory guesses sapping the energy out of him. He stops responding for a while, until Bruce changes something in the menu and Tony manages two matches in a row, then a third. Steve makes an approving noise, but Tony hisses. He knows they’re being ‘nice’ and hates it, pushing the tablet away.

Bruce reclaims it, sketching something else, but Clint watches Tony. He’s produced a different tablet from somewhere and navigated to a screen of icons, like JARVIS mentioned him doing earlier. He smacks the tablet down on the coffee table once he’s done and mashes the screen with his palm to send the symbols scattering off the screen. 

Steve takes Tony's tablet, shoves it behind the couch cushions, then sits back against them. Tony stalks away, comes back with a pillow, and hits Steve over the shoulders with it, hard. Steve weathers this calmly, and reaches out to Tony only after Tony drops the pillow to sit on it himself, fuming. Tony allows himself to be hugged by two hundred plus pounds of team leader muscle.

"Fascinating," Bruce says. "That's um, a very good sign, finding a way to express his frustration while deliberately limiting the harm he can do. Executive control."

“Sorry doc, I think Tony might be done for the day,” Clint says, not missing that Tony’s positioned Steve firmly between himself and Clint. And Steve, being so large, makes exceptionally good cover; Clint can’t see as much of Tony’s body language as he’d like.

“I have one more concept to get across, one second.” 

Bruce flips the screen forwards again and shows them photographs of brains. There are circled dark spots. He scrolls forward through a set of gradually recovering brains, or at least, that’s what it looks like to Clint. Brains are supposed to be lit up all over, right?

Tony...looks heartbroken. He looks at the tablet and touches Steve lovingly on the temple, then brings his hand back to himself and looks down, and Clint can see his body language close off.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He feels like a rime of frost. Bruce is not Pepper and Clint is not-Pepper and it makes him feel stretched very thin to go near both of them at once. Even though he needs to know.

It hurts, down in his chest, to not remember everything clearly, to not be sure of what is going on, but he knows what those pictures mean, and Bruce is wrong. Dead places do not come back to life. They _don’t_. Maybe for Steve they do, but not for him.

 

Tony turns and tries to merge himself with Steve, keeping one eye open warily. They cannot be taken advantage of, and Steve is making him strong and--

Bruce is shaking his head, wanting Tony to take the tablet.

He clamps his legs to his chest and curls his arms over his ears.

No. 

There are people here watching who are not Steve not Pepper. The feeling of eyeballs rolling all over his skin makes him shake and pull a face --not even Steve hugs are making it better-- and then he is gone. Where no one can see him, over the back of the couch in a long tumble, then under the thing, where they cannot see him wriggle towards the secret food cache.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Tony is shivering and angry, Steve doesn't know why the brain picture has set him off, but it has. He's on the edge of the Just-Tony space, the area where he's been hiding food and Steve has been skirting, like he can't decide if he wants hugs and wrestling or to hide where Steve won't come. 

He circles again, and the tablet that Tony stole is hiding under a pillow, so Steve fetches it over as an offering. He holds it out, and Tony stares at it like it's poison until he puts it down between them.

They are back to this, Steve's heart clenches; whywhy why this again. They are past this, they are... Passing food from fingers to mouth, and swapping phones in fragments of moments. Tony cannot always take, cannot take straight from you. You have to put it down, maybe even look away, and then Tony can take it. Steve slides the tablet a little closer to Tony's hand, and he finally relaxes, all at once.

His poor, tired, sticky Tony is done, very done. Maybe for the whole day, even though the sun-clock wouldn't be all the way overhead yet. 

The page of symbols reappears under Tony's nimble fingers, but he doesn't seem to know what to touch. His finger hovers over the hazard signs again, the ones for sickness, and Steve takes his hand very slowly, before he can press something mean about himself. 

Tony uses his other hand to press the sign for stop, several times, a whole line of stops. Steve freezes, but Tony turns toward him, creeps closer, snuffles at his collarbone and licks an almost-gone earlier bitemark. Then he presses a sign for confusion, for not understanding, and goes back to stops. He fills the screen with stops, his face scrunching up with grief.

Steve licks his ear and whines softly. He wants the not-understanding to stop too. Tony drops the tablet and wiggles into him, though he cracks an eye when Steve picks it up.

Steve chooses a rain cloud, and a fluffy poof thing with sparkles, then a scrubbing brush and more watery symbols. The onsen sign, with steam rising from a circle. An onsen is the only thing Tony's tower doesn't have. No hot springs in Manhattan.

Tony huffs a laugh, picks at the grape slime in his hair and slumps limply onto Steve's side. He wants to get clean. Neither of them have the bad-animal smell --the swim in the moat had taken care of that -- but they do smell faintly of moat water, and they smell much more strongly of Steve and Tony and sweat than people ever smell of themselves outside a warzone. Steve doesn't mind -- it's better than the reeking perfume some people wear -- but it's not polite. And he does love the scent of Tony's shampoo, which is gone as thoroughly now as if it was never there.

Steve looks up at the ceiling. There should be a camera. He turns the tablet so the ceiling can see, and waves it around a little. Tony grips his elbow and turns him to point in a slightly different direction, and ha! There is the camera. Steve can see the lens move as it focuses closer on them.

Tony's friend-in-the-cameras JARVIS says something from the tablet, and Steve nearly drops it. JARVIS repeats and Tony looks stricken because they don't understand, but the tablet screen changes and they can see an invisible hand is choosing the rain cloud and a showerhead spraying water and the scrubbing brush, and below them there is a red button with a No sign and a green button with a Yes sign. 

Steve presses the Yes.

Tony looks, and whines, and doesn't press anything, even when the buttons shimmer invitingly. The screen ripples and a third orangey-brown button appears between the other two, with a person looking unsure and a bunch of little question signs. Tony reaches out hesitantly and presses that one.

The buttons move down to the bottom of the screen, making room in the middle, and the middle fills with new little pictures of people. There is a green Yes area and a red No area, and there is a black-haired man picture and a bigger blond-haired man picture in the green area, and that is them, Tony-and-Steve together, yes, good, with everyone else in the red. It is…the red-haired bob woman is Natasha and the brown-haired man with glasses is Bruce...it is pictures of the team. And others, because Steve sees a picture for Pepper and one that must be Happy, and there is Phil smiling.

Tony touches the little picture for Fury and makes a hilariously incredulous face up at JARVIS in the camera. He drops that picture back in the red. Then he unhesitatingly drags a different picture up into the green, and hits the Yes button. The whole screen flashes, and they both confirm the showerhead and the scrub brush again, Yes-Yes. 

Tony wants Rhodey.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"J, what's connectivity like in the other pauldron?" Rhodey asks as he pries up the armour plating, separating the flashy gold hemisphere from the red underlayer. He hasn't found much actual damage so far from the EMP that AIM had used to knock Iron Man out of the sky, but the tears and buckling from the forced disassembly have compromised a lot of the actuators and servos. He knows Tony loves all his suits, but this one may be destined for the scrap pile. The wiring loom is a little more flexible, maybe that will have something to salvage--

_"Poor to non-existant. Sir is asking for you, Colonel."_

Rhodey looks up, frowns, and puts his tools down. "Really? I thought--"

_"Not verbally asking, no. We are trying image-based language."_

"Tell him I'm on my way. Somehow. Any warnings?" 

_"Sir and the Captain appear to be communicating well with each other and Ms Potts seemed to follow, but sir is frustrated and distressed by the effects of the drug. The Captain proposed a shower -- they are both rather in need of one -- and sir agreed, but only on the condition that you are involved."_

Rhodey has reached the elevator by this point, and scratches idly at his stubble. "They were wet when they showed up. That's because they swam the moat?" 

_"Agent Barton's report mentions this, yes."_

Rhodey puts 'swimming', 'alcohol-wipe triggered flashback' and 'shower' together and gets nothing good. But he's impressed that Tony has asked for him; that's not something Tony has ever done. Ever. Not since grad school, not since his parents died and he inherited, not in so many words.

That's not to say they haven't walked each other out of flashbacks before, wet and unfortunately naked ones included, but usually it's more fortune than favour. Rhodey knows that if he shows up and Tony lets him stay, then either Tony's fine or he's really, really not. But this time Tony _asked_. 

Rhodey punches the air, just because he can. 

JARVIS speaks again, sounding worried. _"Sir was also...disturbed by attempts to explain that the effects are temporary and left the group abruptly. I do not think he believes that the depiction of recovery applies to him. Dr Banner and Agent Barton are concerned that they have caused more harm than good by bringing up the topic."_

"How'd they try to get it across?"

_"They demonstrated a brain healing from multiple inhibitory lesions in a series of MRI scans.”_

"Okay so far," Rhodey allows. "Did he understand what the images stood for?"

_"He imputed that they applied only to the Captain,"_ JARVIS says. " _Which implies that he did understand, and has retained a sense of the Captain's superior healing, at the very least."_

"But he's leaping ahead if he thinks those were actually Steve's MRIs, or even images of the same issue that's going on here. Bruce just wanted to show the concept of recovery, right?"

_"Correct,"_ JARVIS says, sounding distressed.

"Let's back up. He came out of his nyquil-nap fine, ate breakfast. Had coffee.”

_“Indeed.”_

“I was hoping...” He shakes the thought loose. “Never mind. Does he know where he is and who we are by now? How well is he able to follow what's going on?"

_“So far he has recognised Ms Potts in person, and himself, the Captain, yourself and General Fury in pictographic form. Doctor Banner and Agent Barton are still eliciting threat responses, though he has become accustomed to their presence. As for where he is, and his ability to follow what is going on… Unknown.”_

" _That's_ concerning," Rhodey says, thinking fast. "Okay. No more communication experiments until we get a chance to put our heads together. Let Dr. Banner and Clint know to back off and leave them be for a while. First priority is making sure Tony knows he's safe, or we'll have him plotting to destroy his own tower to escape. Let's not kid around with that, there's way too many things in this tower that can explode."

_"Understood,"_ JARVIS says. _"Agreed."_

"Any ideas on establishing how much he's getting?" 

_"Abstraction appears to be on the edge of sir's current capacity, though it is quite difficult to investigate this. Pictorial concepts appear less difficult, while letters hold little to no meaning for either of them. It would appear that he cannot count past four,”_ JARVIS says with distinct distress. _“And his continued distrust of team members he appears to recognize disturbs me as well."_

They're at the Hulk floor, and the elevator dings open. "But we have a start with the pictorial communication, and we can build on that. Come up with two or three alternate approaches for explaining the situation to him, and we'll try it once we know how he's going to react to me. Does he recognise you?" Rhodey enters his code into the secure door as he talks, and the shadows of distant movement in the armoured window go still.

_"He does."_

"Now _that_ makes me feel better. You know that's why he hasn't tunnelled through the walls yet, J. Probably the only reason." Rhodey wishes he could clap JARVIS on the shoulder and settles for smiling at the elevator camera. "Okay, here we go. Any last tips?" He asks as the locks disengage and the door begins to swing inwards. 

_"The Captain's behavior is rather...demonstrative, but he is otherwise in control of himself."_

It's hard to imagine, because Steve has always been pretty restrained, but Rhodey can handle that. He takes a steadying breath, tells himself that interacting with Tony in a weird headspace is nothing he hasn't done before, and goes inside. 

Tony is staring. He's crouched on a Hulk-sized platform, Steve plastered to his side, staring right at Rhodey. Not hiding; that's interesting. Rhodey stares right back, making it clear he knows Tony is there. Then he smiles and says "Hey, Tones," and takes a look at the layout of the room. He's never actually come in here until now.

It's like a ball pit for a giant child, only instead of hard plastic balls there are large foam blocks and pillows, all shapes and sizes, scattered around some permanent structures --a bridge, a dome-- that look large and strong enough for a Hulk to climb on, in, and under. The structures have human-sized holes in them as well, and Rhodey doesn't doubt that they double as places for more squishy members of the team to take cover. Under the low bridge the floor is sunken so that the Hulk could hide underneath if he wants, though the space is filled completely with blocks and pillows now. Rhodey can see Tony's hand in the masterly way they are packed and slotted together. That's a pillow fort that could survive heavy fire.

An area near the door is set up like an open living room, its normal-scale furniture dwarfed by the cavernous surroundings and the forty-foot ceiling. There are two big couches either side of a coffee table; the wall houses recessed speakers, cabinets and a little food prep area tucked beside a large suspiciously-reflective empty wallspace that is probably for projecting TV. Bruce and Clint wave at him from the couches and Rhodey goes over to nod at Bruce and fist-bump Clint.

"Is it weird sitting in the doll furniture this time, doc?"

Bruce laughs. "It is, actually. The other guy thinks I'm missing a prime opportunity to go play."

"You've been leaving them their space?" Rhodey asks. It feels weird that Tony hasn't come to greet him and demand his attention yet; that's been SOP for two decades.

"Yeah," Clint grimaces. "We've been sticking to the puny human area. Basic rule for this room is to stay here unless invited further in, but I'm not sure Tony and Steve realize they could invite us. And I don't think Tony would."

"Even in here, he's skittish," Rhodey guesses. 

"Both shy and aggressive," Clint confirms. 

It's not a good combination, but he's not really surprised. Tony's shark smile has been SOP for people he doesn't trust for a long time, it's all bundled up with the shit he doesn't talk about, like not taking things from people's hands.

"He reminds me of, uh..." Clint adds slowly, "Some of the animals I worked with as a kid. And those were the most dangerous ones, because they were afraid."

"Great. And how did the tigers like their bathwater?"

"Cold and predictable. But most tigers are just fine with water if you toss some meat in there for 'em. You think that'd work on him?"

Rhodey contemplates just how much Tony would do for a piece of Steve's ass and makes himself snort in laughter. "What's Steve's usual take on being naked in company?"

Clint cackles. "Bathtime for Captain America! He's fine with it -- the whole archaic military thing wore it out of him." He sobers a little and shrugs. "But Tony? Man I have no idea how he’ll handle water. The flashback he had on the jet was bad, as bad as I’ve ever seen.”

"Yeah. We'll just have to 'talk' it over. I think I know how to handle it."

"I think I'm missing something," Bruce says. He looks tired.

"Tony and water aren't best friends, it's just a fact of life, now." Rhodey casts about for a tablet, spotting one next to Bruce. "I'll fill you in once I know what works. You got a shower in here?" 

"Big enough for the big guy. It's in the back. You want this?" He holds up the tablet and Rhodey spots an ASCII library open next to a comprehensive set of emoticons. It'll do. 

"Yeah, thanks. You know if you two wanna take a break, now's the time. If Tony comes haring outta the shower, he'll be buck ass nude and looking for privacy, not company." 

"Say no more, man. I'm outta here." Clint doesn't look directly at the sweaty, sticky couple in the playpen, but he gets a good look in anyway. Rhodey isn't looking either; if Tony's still feeling jarred, being stared at isn't going to help. "Won't be far, just... Yell. But not for nude wrangling, even an agent has to draw lines somewhere. Bruce?" 

The scientist nods, and gestures with his bandaged hand for him to lead the way. "I'm going to run up a more flexible app for them to communicate with, give Jarvis a few more options. Good luck, Colonel." 

"Thanks. We'll be fine. Oh! Hey, Nat dropped a bunch of files on the kidnappers in the common room, if you want to take a look." 

Bruce tips an imaginary hat. "I'll do that." 

The door closes and its locks engage with a reassuring blast-door thud. It's a nice-feeling space, like being in a bunker--

"Ooff--" Tony latches onto his waist in a very familiar way and Rhodey stumbles a half step. 

"Hey there. Hey buddy..." If words are unimportant, then tone is even more significant than usual. Tony sighs gustily into his shoulder blades, and his grip relaxes. Rhodey wriggles 'round enough to hug him and glory be, the squirmy little shit doesn't skitter off. 

Over his shoulder, Cap's smiling and looking unusually awkward. But not like he wants to run away. On a hunch, Rhodey lifts one arm off Tony's shoulder, and Cap shuffles over to join in.

"Man. I'm being hugged by Captain America. My life just got like... 75% more awesome and 400% weirder." 

Tony huffs damp, hot air into his shoulder.

"Yeah yeah, I hear ya," Rhodey says, going for affectionate and sympathetic. To his weird, shivery surprise, Steve makes an agreeable sound and rubs the top of his head. It makes his scalp tingle. "Okay, oookaay, J, let's get clean. Tony, you smell, and this whole group hug thing would be a lot nicer if you didn't." 

JARVIS flashes the tablet screen, and Rhodey flips it so he and Steve can both see. Tony is too close; Rhodey would have to hold it over his own shoulder to get it in his line of sight. The symbols roughly translate the sentiment of positivity about getting clean, and Steve makes a wanting sound, which makes Tony look up. 

"Hey buddy, this, yeah?" He points at the shower symbol and Tony makes a familiar face, the one he uses to look at the armor when it's in multiple pieces it wasn't designed to be in. 

Rhodey reaches out to touch the smear of whipped cream on Tony's forelock and raises his eyebrows pointedly. Tony's face goes twisty with determination and he taps the shower picture twice with the back of a knuckle. 

They get disentangled and Rhodey heads for the back of the space. The bathroom/shower area is big enough for the Hulk and an assistant --if the human-sized spray gun is any indication-- and by proxy, big enough for the three of them. Tony stays at the threshold, a barefoot bundle of tension, and Steve brackets him like a guard dog. 

That's fine, if that's Tony's comfort zone right now. Rhodey isn't going to argue.

"J, we got any way of asking or warning Tony that clothes are probably gonna need to come off?" Rhodey asks, tucking the tablet under his arm while he turns the spray gun on low and sets it to gush across the weirdly bouncy floor towards the drain. He scoots out of its way and goes to take his shoes and socks off. "Better raise the temperature in here too, if we can. The water's warm, but Tony won't want to be in it longer than he has to be."

Jarvis makes his usual quiet thinking noise for a bit. " _I have_ _taken the liberty of requesting clean clothes be dropped off with Dummy. I believe Sir will not require much prompting."_

Rhodey stuffs his shoes in a hole in the wall above a bench-thing built out of more wall and picks the tablet back up. A dressed couple, then arrows diverging into some clothes covered in bubbles and the hand washing emote. 

It seems to do the trick. Tony comes inside the room and bullies Steve in too, though the guy was _coming,_ jheeze, be patient, so he can close and lock the door. Tony smacks the lock for emphasis.

"Yeah, no one else. Just us." 

Tony squints at him suspiciously, then snorts and starts pulling off his pants. Steve does too, and folds them before stacking them away from Rhodey's clean socks. Rhodey watches him pick at a blob of cream with a grimace and figures, what the heck, worth a try. “It’ll come off no problem, Cap, JARVIS has handled worse than that.” 

Steve understands all right. He looks at Rhodey, then stuffs the clothes away with an air of caring no more about it. 

The thing that gets Rhodey the most about this whole scenario is that they move like themselves. Fundamentally, themselves. Cap is obviously ready to take on the world, all comers, back straight, feet light but grounded on the rubber tiles. Tony... Wow, Rhodey hasn't seen Tony move like this in a long time. 

He's crouched near the stream of water, naked except for a grubby tank top, and testing the temperature with his fingertips. So tested, he sniffs the steam, then puts his foot into the flow sheeting towards the drain and groans happily. 

Rhodey knows some of Tony's sex noises and this isn't one of them, but it makes his cheeks heat up anyway. Steve laughs quietly and goes to help him wash his feet. Tony is willing to get more wet by rolling in the water, and eventually does, though he keeps his head up and a wary eye on the spray head lying abandoned on the floor. His tank top darkens and sticks to him, and Rhodey can see the bandage underneath, taped up around the curve of the reactor. They'll get to that later, one step at a time. Now is all about Steve with a soapy mesh pouffe-scrubber, and Tony trying to rinse off by laying on his stomach in the little stream. 

It's pretty cute, and Rhodey stays on the bench, ‘supervising’. He tries not to get an eyeful of the Captain's very natural reaction to the naked boyfriend situation, and to his relief, Tony is too busy distrusting the water to ah, feel the same way. If they want to, Rhodey won't stop them. It's pretty clear that Steve at least is capable of understanding consent right now, as well as being the best of them at picking up Tony's cues.

As is demonstrated a minute later: Steve's whole body droops when he picks up the shampoo and sees Tony edge away from him. If Rhodey was worrying that Tony's usual self-sacrificing ‘I'll do it for you’ bullshit was going to be a problem, he's not now. But he actually wasn't, because this is pretty much what you expect from Steve Rogers: Steve drops the bottle and kicks it away at the first hint that Tony doesn't want it, and gathers Tony up into a much-needed hug instead.

It's Rhodey’s cue, and he retrieves the bottle. He's used to using the ‘I'll do it for you’ moment to his advantage and Tony's, so it's no trouble to leave Tony straddling Cap's lap and wash his hair for him.

Except for the suggestive seating arrangement, there's nothing sexy about it. Tony's so tense his fingers are white. Around his eyes and lips, too. Rhodey starts him off easy, running wet fingers through his hair to get him used to the sensation. The shampoo he sets by Steve's knee, and Tony doesn't object; it's not the shampoo he's scared of, but the water. On his head. On his face. Rhodey's done this dance a few times, yeah, and Tony fronts like a very smart man with thirty years of practice, but Rhodey had his number within a couple days of picking him up off that sand dune. 

Once or twice since then, he's been professionally involved in the ongoing question of just what sort of thing constitutes torture, and where the line should be drawn. He's made a few enemies as a result, and a few allies as well. JARVIS has his own line that he will not cross, but he's very good at suggesting contacts, and Rhodey has expanded and deepened a network of support that has nothing to do with SI contracts or shady SHIELD maneuvering. It'll come in handy one of these days.

So Rhodey and JARVIS know, and Natasha and Pepper suspect, and now Steve will do more than suspect. He'll put it together as soon as his sharp mind is back on all cylinders, if he hasn't already. He's perceptive, and he's seen more of Tony in this state, Tony-stripped-raw, than any of the rest of them. Rhodey puts his hands down flat on the wet floor and breathes evenly through a sudden red wash of rage. If he was in War Machine right now, if he could call down an airstrike on AIM or the Ten Rings before them, no power on earth would save those fuckers. He's been in combat, he's lost buddies before and he will again, but Tony and him go all the way back to two smart, lonely, miserable kids at MIT. He'd known Tony wasn't safe, that there was nothing safe about being rich and smart and alone in an empty house. But he'd never thought _that_ kind of violence would touch him.

Rhodey lets the rage wash out of him, lets it go. There’s a real, concrete job to do right now. 

Tony’s brave, maybe too brave usually, but Rhodey isn’t going to push anything. He pulls out all the tricks from those first few days and works the shampoo real carefully. The most important thing, after keeping water off his face directly, is to keep the suds from dripping onto his forehead, because if that gets in his eyes, there’s no way to wash it out without serious craziness. He doesn’t use much water, so the lather is thick and sticky enough to stay where Rhodey puts it, and he relies mostly on mechanical rubbing to get the sticky whatever-it-is dissolved out of Tony's hair.

Tony’s breathing hard, the corners of his mouth still white despite what Rhodey knows is a fucking fantastic (thank you very much) scalp massage, and Steve makes a calming cooing rumble, his hands bracketing Tony’s face to help keep the suds away from his eyes and --weirdly-- ears. But he’s on to something, because a stray drip gets past his hands and Tony flicks his head wildly out of their hands.

Suds go literally flying, splattering Rhodey’s tee and making Steve sputter. But the thing is, Tony’s hands have started whiting out Steve’s shoulders, dime-sized white divots under his fingertips. His eyes are shut tight, his whole face as tense as a clenched fist. His throat is working, but he's not breathing.

XXXXX

Black water closes over his face, ice cold and rancid. Bitter, bad, _awful_ , there is no _air_. Under him, Steve is pulling him further, deeper, where is the surface?! He can’t see to find the bubbles, and the water is in all directions swishing and moving and holding him down.

Behind, people with guns and teeth and the bad smell and _pain_ in their electric sticks, blindness and terror. The dark corner of the dark room where things went wrong inside his head.

In front, more water, oily and black and still, why the water, why, Steve--

But the bridge is worse, the ones on it just smart enough to remember how to fire their machine guns, and just scared enough to fire at everything that moves. Like the others in the same colors a few minutes ago, blood and lead-- no, Tony won’t, _won’t_ see that happen to Steve. They have to swim. 

Nothing safe, nowhere safe, anywhere. Safe is a lie.

Behind them the bad-fear-animal smell is spreading, making AIM crazier, and he can smell it on his hands, on Steve’s breath. It’s making him more afraid, his heart rattling fast against his ribs-- He bites, he is _sorry_ , but he bites, it is real, warm skin and the twitch Steve makes, it is _real_. Steve is taking him to the water and he hates it but he is still _sorry!_

They have to, but--

But the water-- he can’t hold his breath for long anymore, they’ll drown, they’ll die, Steve will freeze, and sink, and be alone for another too-long eternity--

But they _have to_ , the other way is lead bursting out of Steve’s chest in a spray of bone chips, his skin burning and peeling with the killer-white of electricity-- Tony will hold his breath, he will _he will, go, please, just, quickly!_

Something grabs his leg underwater, greasy-slimy fingers trailing along his ankle, and he grabs Steve _hard_ , arms locking up. His head breaks the surface and he gasps but the air is just the bad smell and nothing to breathe, it burns his eyes and he coughs it back out, closes his mouth and the water is so _cold_ \--

_Nonononononono._ He can't move. Steve keeps moving and he’s going to die, his heart is going to stop, this is 

Steve is shaking. 

_Steve--_

XXXXX

“Tony, c’mon. Breathe for me, yeah?” Rhodey drops the spray head and wipes the splattered bubbles off Tony’s face with his shirt. Even once the worst is gone, he doesn’t take that all-important breath and Steve whines and squeezes him a little, nuzzling and... licking? Yeah. Rhodey pulls off his shirt entirely, finds a clean dry patch on the back and pats over Tony’s sideburns and eyes, down either side of his nose, even though he can’t see any water.

Steve finally bites Tony, which Rhodey should have seen coming, and Tony jerks and gasps, eyes flying open. He doesn’t struggle any more, just crushes Steve’s head to his shoulder and keeps taking ragged gasps of air, eyes darting around the room, taking in Rhodey and _there_ , recognition.

Better.

Rhodey hurries to scrape the last of the suds out with his hands, then changes the setting on the hose to a spray that doesn’t make drops bigger than a pinhead. Fingers crossed. Steve makes eye contact over Tony’s shoulder --his gaze is as blue and shocking as the first time he'd looked at Rhodey from behind the Cap mask-- and nods.

Rhodey nods back, and uses the mist-spray to finish rinsing as quickly as he can. Tony is shaking, eyes screwed closed and holding Steve tight as he lets the water accumulate in his hair and drip down his back, suds slowly washing out of the sopping-wet tank top. The tendons of his neck stand out with tension until Rhodey lays down the sprayer and makes a try at wringing the water out with his hands, and then _finally_ Tony relaxes a bit. The dents his fingers have left in Steve’s upper arms flush with blood under the skin, little crimson patches, and Steve gathers him close against his chest. 

Rhodey sits back for a second and just...breathes. _God damn._

Eventually Tony slumps properly, his nose pressed into Steve’s neck. He’s breathing normally, finally, and his hands fall limp against Steve’s arm. It’s time they finished up, let Tony rest. 

Tony’s beard he’s not even going to touch with actual liquid water --that way lies failure of the crash and epic explosion variety-- so Rhodey attacks it with his damp and slightly soapy shirt. Tony makes a much better face at having his beard scrubbed, a scrunched-up and irate grumpy expression, and weakly paws at the shirt to do it his own damn self. His normally-immaculate grooming must involve something like this; he blearily runs the cloth with the grain of his beard.

Rhodey backs away cautiously, switching the spray gun back to hose mode and letting it wash away the suds on the floor. The worst is over, probably, just gotta get Tony's tank top off and his burn re-dressed, and Rhodey and Steve have both seen the reactor plenty. 

"I'm gonna find a washcloth. I like that shirt. Don't put holes in my shirt with your wire-brush stubble," he tells Tony, and Steve snorts. "Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. I see Tony rubbing his face on you. You get the beard burns, for a minute anyway." On Steve's shoulders, the places where Tony’s fingers dug in have already gone through red and into bruise-blue.

There's washcloths in a stack behind a rubbery cupboard door and he tosses a few into the sheeting water. Tony's never been as bad about the reactor as he is with water, so Rhodey isn't worried, comparatively speaking.

When he turns back, Tony is naked, and Steve is in the process of throwing the soggy bandage across the room. 

“You wanna take this one, Cap? Gentle, and don't pull away from the reactor, always towards it, yeah?” 

Cap looks from the cloth Rhodey’s offering to the reactor, his face appropriately serious, then nods and takes the cloth. 

Tony spends the entire operation with his teeth in Steve's shoulder, barely enough room between them for the washing to happen, but Steve doesn't seem to mind. 

Whatever. Rhodey’s done; he’ll get them some hot towels and a fresh bandage. Cap can clean himself, and Tony is as good as it gets.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hot fuzzy towels for drying. 

They are amazing. Steve wants them always. Always. They're luxury, they make him sleepy and content and warm inside as well as out. Tony, Tony, he gets two; one over hips and one over shoulders and then squeeze. Wrap them properly and then hug over top, and Tony goes soft and sleepy too. Hah. 

It's been a long morning, Tony had so much go! And he didn't bite anyone meanly at all today. Yesterday was a Bad Time to approach Tony with sharps, not Tony's fault.

The little round bruises on Steve's shoulders are not Tony's fault either. Steve knows that the people who hurt him are dead. Fire and bullets _dead._ Water and sand and the reactor and death. And gone, all the way gone, he has to focus, his people need him. 

When he looks up, Tony is right there, very close to his face and very, very sad, and tentative about it, the way he always is to show this sort of thing. He hesitantly fits his fingers over the blue-green marks on Steve's shoulder and says ‘sorry’ with every fiber of his being. His eyes are huge and round, lashes still sticking together, and his voice is a soft, sad tone. He leans in and nuzzles the marks with his breath and warm dry lips, licking a little, looking up at Steve through his eyelashes. Steve gathers him close, their limbs tangling and chests pressed so close they have to breathe in counter-time. He snuffles along Tony's hairline, warm cherry scent from the shampoo and the unidentified fruit in the soap. It's good, and he heaves a great sigh, pushing the air out of Tony with an ‘oomph’ then blowing humid air into Tony's ear and making him squirm. He feels better for it, can push aside the dark thoughts.

He's not done with Tony just yet; he needs cream on his burn. Then clothes. Keeping it straight in his head is hard; Tony is naked and in his lap and that's distracting, but they have no privacy so even though Steve's mouth waters, he won't lick or suck. Tony's not interested, anyway.

Steve fishes the cream out of his pants before they go to get clean and shows it to Tony, pointing at his chest. Tony folds in on himself, knees covering the reactor, and makes big obstinate eyes. 

You gotta, babe.

Tony uncurls just enough for Steve to dab and then cover. A new bandage, clean and soft, Steve's hands remember how. There, hidden away from the world. Tony relaxes again and sprawls on the soft floor, well away from the wet places. There's a lamp in the ceiling that makes hot yellow light and Steve leaves Tony to bask in it while he finds clean clothes. 

Where is warmachine, he would know... But Tony's friend has gone, into the main space-- oh! Privacy! They have it, it's a nice feeling. But at the same time... He would like some help here, thank you. He prowls across the door to the main space; he doesn't mind being naked in here, it’s warm, but it will be cooler outside and they need clothes to make the trip to Tony's fortified nest. Decision made, he opens the door cautiously. No drafts are allowed in--

Dummy! 

There, that is Dummy, Tony's son-child-helper-useless hunk of junk. And he has clothes. Not useless not at all but Tony never meant it anyway.

“Booweeeeop?”

Steve opens the door far enough to let him inside and the bot rushes in, squealing and turning the corner too fast. The clothes on his chassis tumble off and Steve paws through them to separate them back into two different sizes while Dummy and Tony beep at each other.

The two sweaters are the same size; huge. But one smells like him and the other smells like Tony. Perfect. He pulls on the Tony-scented one and the pants, excellent warm and dry feeling, not sticky and not drafty, because the ankles are stretchy-cuff. He likes them. 

He whistles; up, up sharp! Down down, up, down. Tony looks shocked, hah, and Dummy is so happy he does a spin and Tony has to duck out of the way, and then he is laughing, sprawled on the heat-lamp yellow floor. Steve dumps the clothes on his laughing face and pulls on Tony's ankle to shove it into the pants. Tony waves him off, biiig smile, and wriggles into the other leg himself. 

Steve is glad, so glad it makes the center of his chest hurt, that the thing that made Tony cling onto him with teeth and claws, hasn't cracked Tony open. It feels like _Steve_ 's chest is cracked. His heart is feeling big and shivery and he buries his nose in the Tony smell of the sweater. 

“Bweeeeee-iiiooop.” 

Tony yawns in agreement and shoves the bundle of sweater at Steve. It is tangled into a godawful mess so Steve finds the head hole and shoves it over Tony's (very impressive) head of floof. Tony emerges victorious, arms in sleeves and -- ah, around Steve. Legs too, around his waist, and Tony clings strong enough to hold his weight completely. 

The cracking shivery feeling in Steve's heart goes away again. Tony is OK. This is good and important. They should find a good sleeping spot and rest away the day. Dummy trundles up to them, beeping curiously and nudging Steve in the direction of the door. Yes, yes.

Even dressed, it is unpleasantly cool when he opens the door. Tony scrambles up his back, thighs tight around his waist, and it is slightly warmer, but he still wants to move fast, get into the snuggly cushions. But. Also. He is lethargic, warm and sleepy.

Splitting the difference, he marches steadily, ignoring Team because Tony’s head swivels like an owl to keep distrustful eyes on them. Steve feels no threat from that direction, but someone does laugh. Quietly.

Steve smiles quietly, also. Tony, _Tony_ grumbles and hides his face in Steve’s neck. His nose is nice and warm. Good.

Cold water is an abomination. Hot shower and drying lamp, infinitely better; doesn’t leave your skin clammy afterwards. He marches straight into the big pillow fort and Tony slithers down off his back and into a ball amongst the rucked blankets. He’s just tired, it’s been a long week, but Steve’s not a big believer in ‘just’, so he makes a soft, crooning ‘love you’ sound and eases down behind him. 

He tucks Tony into his chest and gets a happy grumble in reward. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Night. Tony is awake.

This place is big, the ceiling either lower or higher than expected, the echoes strange, the smells strange. Where it is high the high ceiling is very far away, oppressively high and shadowed. No windows.

Steve is behind him, one warm shoulder against Tony's back and his hand under Tony's hip. The rest of him has gone wandering; Steve sleeps wide, like he thinks they are in a bed and he wants to find the edges. When they _are_ in a bed, he still does it. Sometimes he falls out.

Tony thinks about his bed, which he remembers sleeping in and doing other things in, and how it is wide and soft and touches the wall only at the headboard. If he was there now he would push it into a corner. Maybe Steve would make a happy lump against the wall. Maybe that is what he wants.

His bed is up somewhere, past the ceiling, he thinks. 

He reaches up and gestures _Holos On_. 

There is a soft chime. _Can't_ , it means.

_New file. Switch. Open Root, Down, Down, Down, Search._

Soft sad chimes. Tony pulls his hand back into the blankets. His friend can't, can't show him here; his friend is in the cameras and the tablets and the speakers only, almost as limited as Tony is. Not in the walls, not in the air.

Three down from root, search. He can see the branches. That is where he keeps his pictures of brains.

Scan, he thinks, and gestures _Scan_ under the blankets, the way he had done in the dream. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Natasha believes she has a pretty good handle on Tony; she's had enough time with him to guarantee that. So when she visits on the second night after they bring their lost boys home, she takes the promised DVD and a box of solderless electronics. Conblocks, breadboards, a box of sensors, some effectors and servo motors, and one of Tony’s answer to the raspberry Pi. (It hadn’t taken off, he’s very embarrassed.) 

On JARVIS’ advice she includes a tangle of construction strips too, and the tiny pivot nuts, washers and bolts that turn them into prototyping materials. She brings Steve a fresh pad of paper, in case he never wants to see these drawings again, and some of his street-drawing pencils.

The box rattles just enough to attract Dummy on her way past, and he does an abrupt U-turn behind her, following her back to the Hulk room and abandoning his load of laundry in the middle of the corridor.

“You’re a good bot, yes you are...” she murmurs, letting him catch up and setting the box of bits on his chassis, then offering the sketchbook. He deftly takes it and twirls his claw, looking at both sides with his camera. “This is for Steve, okay? Take it to Steve.”

He whizzes off in Steve’s direction with a gleeful beeping. Steve and Tony are sitting off to one side of the team area, partly behind cover with bean bags and foam blocks to lean on. Not really hiding, but not fully visible either.

They look tired. 

Clint and the others are studiously ignoring them, so she follows suit and waves her DVD, asks for a vote. There’s only one candidate, so Clint throws a pencil at her.

They watch _Ghostbusters_ , all piled on the couches like it’s a normal day after work, and she doesn't look at Tony. Two hours later Steve has joined them, flat on his stomach on the floor with the sketchbook, industriously ignoring the bright colors and whiz-bangs on screen. She sneaks a peek and he's drawing a big old-fashioned microphone, of all things. It’s perfectly recognizable; one of the Red Room facilities had an announcement system like that when she was a child. He flips the page, and over the next hour and the first half of _Mad Max_ (the original, at Clint's insistence), he draws Pepper holding Tony's favorite coffee cup and smiling. His composition is odd, and there's something a bit surrealist about the way he seems to catch her face from several angles at once, but it's unmistakably Pepper. When he hears something and scrambles off, he leaves the sketchbook there in plain view, open and abandoned, not caring a bit.

Steve comes back with a small, simplified-but-perfect car made of metal strips. The lumpy wheels really turn, and the doors pop up and out when they open in a way that makes Clint stiffen in glee and recognition, and Bruce take the car right out of Steve's hand. Steve passes it over proudly, as if intense examination is only right and proper.

By popular demand, the next movie is one called _Back to The Future_. Much becomes clear. During this one Tony is comfortable enough to betray his location a couple of times. She can see the shine of his eyes, still and almost unblinking for long minutes as he watches before turning back to his work.

The marathon peters out around 2 AM when Clint starts snoring from his sprawl on the couch, and Natasha lets herself out, following in the footsteps of their more sensible or sleepy teammates and turning toward her rooms.

But only as far as the first good hiding place. She has a hunch.

Twenty minutes later Clint wanders out, yawning so hard his jaw cracks. He spots her immediately and asks with a widening of his eyes, and then a squint, whether he should stick around. She waves him off with a ripple of the fingers of one hand.

He shrugs, scratches himself, and rebounds gently off the corner as he heads toward bed. She settles in for a long wait.

XXXXXXXXX

At 3:53 AM, the door opens again. Nothing happens for so long that she would be tempted to move, if she were twenty years of hard experience younger. Then the rectangle of darkness slits a little wider and Tony slips out.

He keeps close to the ground, stopping, looking, listening. He's quiet, and far more cautious than she's ever seen him. He doesn't spot her, but that's because she keeps her eyes closed as he passes, and there's a potted geranium at the junction of the corridors that overpowers all human scents. 

He eases the fire door open and steals into the metal stairwell. It's a long climb up to his workshop floor, but the stairs will take him most of the way there.

"You're sure about this?" she says, after the shush-patter of Tony's bare feet is gone out of hearing.

_"If I am not sure, who else can ever be?"_

Natasha rolls her shoulders and concedes the point. 

She follows after a long enough head start that Tony's settled in the dimly lit workshop by the time she reaches the wall of glass. He's way off in the corner, in a pool of dim yellow light, doing something with one of his big scanning units.

She creeps around for a good angle on the lit space and settles in to watch.

JARVIS’ nearest screen to Tony lights up slowly, his affectation of taking time to warm up, and he shows a picture of a cartoon brain. Tony nods jerkily, tugging at his hair, then shaking himself like he can shake the drug right out of his head.

Tony can't have MRIs -- they would induce enough current in the arc reactor to kill him -- and the effects hadn't shown up on CT scans of the AIM goons, but she's not clear on what advanced technology Tony has available down here. From the way he moves, pulling booms and rolling tables around, shoving toolboxes out of the way, it's clear he still has all the skills he needs to do this. She won't interfere, not unless Tony starts putting himself at risk. 

Just showing her face should be enough to send him blazing back to Steve, as long as she's careful not to trap him. The last thing she wants is a panicked and desperate Tony feeling trapped, especially in here, in reach of his tools.

JARVIS projects holographic alignment markers; they change color when Tony gets the booms roughly in place, then turn into a set of fine crosshairs that chime when they're exactly right, one on each axis. When they're all set up, the AI projects a new set of soft orange markers in the middle of the open space. Tony goes haltingly.

The warm light makes Tony look healthy, unblemished for a second, hiding the circles under his eyes. It turns green when Tony gets in place and he closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and holds perfectly still while the scanner booms focus, panning over him slowly. Laser points flash against his temples and in his hair, a deeper blood-red than a laser sight, that picks out the blood vessels under his skin. 

Every shadow of bruising and burst capillary on his uncovered skin shines like a beacon even to Nat's vision. On the far side of the set up, a screen shows that JARVIS can see a great deal more than the surface. First the superstructure of the brain's blood supply appears, then finer and finer detail as the pinpoints shiver in place and the scanner booms reverse, repeating their scan. 

After ten or fifteen seconds, the light shuts off abruptly, leaving Natasha blinking away green spots. In the shop, Tony lurches forwards, hand flying to his chest as he coughs. Natasha nearly breaks cover, but JARVIS stops her with a struck-out circle.

_“He is fine, Agent Romanov; he simply detests holding his breath.”_

She settles back in her hidden corner. “That's one hell of a reaction.” 

_“Stillness is difficult for him, though he seems to grasp the necessity. The image is of high quality.”_

Tony swings the booms back against their supports and Velcros the dust-covers over them. Yeah, he knows exactly what he's doing. 

“And?”

_“I am afraid it is too soon to say. There are differences between this scan and his previous one, but the technique is highly experimental. I have yet to develop an ‘eye’ for interpreting the data. Full analysis will take time, and perhaps assistance.”_

Nat settles back into the shadows, frowning. “Anything you can do to reassure him would be fantastic, JARVIS.” 

_“I won’t lie to him. It would be ineffective at best.”_

“That’s not what I asked, Hotlips.” 

JARVIS makes a quiet clicking sound, managing to convey tolerant irritation. 

In the lab, Tony drags a screen into the hidden corner between two crates and the wall, vanishing behind them, even from her excellent vantage point. JARVIS obligingly pops up a second view for her, once the glow from the hologram won’t give her away to Tony.

He's settled into the concrete and steel corner with his thumb between his teeth and knees covering his chest. The screen flickers through a rapid series of displays as Tony gestures abruptly, pictures of his brain eventually arranging out into a comparison, JARVIS helpfully appending dates that mean nothing to her except _now_ and _before_. 

Tony chews on this thumb, face pale and hard with concentration. She watches him, watches what JARVIS ‘says’ with images, but she can’t follow their conversation. Something about the Hulk room and a copy of the HUD in the suit; she looks aside at the brain scans instead of paying close attention. Just because she’s keeping an eye on him doesn’t mean she has permission to listen in on a private and visibly intense conversation. 

She slinks away silently when she sees Tony crying and scrubbing angrily at his eyes. There’s a laundry cupboard near the emergency shower on the other side of the floor; she takes her time gathering a fleece blanket, then stands staring at the closed cupboard door with it rumpled in her hands. 

“He--” She cuts herself off with a frustrated sound, but she can feel JARVIS waiting for her to finish. He’s a master at the expectant silence. “He’s going to recover.” 

“ _Steve’s condition has improved -- he has spoken of his own accord, using words that he has not heard since the kidnapping. There is every indication that Sir will do the same.”_

“But the serum is...not well understood, and AIM didn’t keep good records of past experiments. They expected them to hurt each other, ‘according to past outcomes’--”

_“Natasha.”_

She stops abruptly, smoothing the blanket back into a neat-folded square and slowing her heart and breathing. “Right.” 

“ _Dummy will meet you at the stairwell, and deliver your gift to Sir.”_

She heads back towards the workshop, zeroing in on the whirr of Dummy’s wheels, and passes the blanket to the bot. “Hey, good boy. You got Tony’s back?” 

Dummy whirrs appreciatively, sure he does. She puts the blanket on his chassis and pats his effector. “You look after him until he’s ready to go back to Steve, okay?” 

Dummy beeps curiously, not quite understanding. She smiles and pets him again. “Take this to Tony, okay.” The bot turns with a happier beeping, and scoots into the workshop. She heads back to her hidden corner by the glass wall.

Dummy circles around the back of the large milling machine and trundles his way over to Tony, without managing to knock over anything. Tony looks up and goes limp, his hand falling away from his teeth and smiling. He takes the blanket and puts it over his shoulders like a cape.

She heads to bed, satisfied for now.

In the morning Tony is back down in the Hulk room with Steve and acting no differently than normal, which is to say he approaches almost within forty feet to grumpily accept the coffee that Steve takes to him. Then he slips off and goes right back to sleep in their safe space; she still hasn't spotted all the different hiding spots he napped in at first, but he seems to trust now that no one will disturb them in the best one if he dares to go back over and over.

She can see just a corner of the same fleece blanket as he wraps up in it.


	3. At Your Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank McCoy finds a way.

XXXXXXXXX  
Two weeks later  
XXXXXXXXX

_"And now for local and regional updates. First up, our own Avengers Report. Concerns are mounting over the health and whereabouts of --"_

"Mute," Rhodey says. "Bring it back up when the jazz comes back on."

Rhodey leans into the turn and makes his own soundtrack for a while, smacking into the circum-Chrysler current and pitching east into the wind off the ocean. 

_“Fury just had confirmation that they’re coming from the storm drains, War Machine. Take downstream of 17th,”_ Natasha finally orders, sending him peeling off at a leisurely 170mph. 

_“Aw man, tunnels, really?”_ Sam asks, though it’s not a whine. He’s a solid guy, takes his hits without complaining, but he’s an aerofoil flier and not suited to the close quarters in the tunnels.

 _“Falcon, you stay up top. We’re inevitably going to flush some of them out; don’t let them go back to ground in the sewers or basements,”_ she replies, and Sam leaves a white trail on the HUD as he does a relieved about-face, heading back to cruising altitude above the rooftops. _“J, maps for everyone. Full downloads, we won't have reliable signal down there.”_

“Speak for yourself,” Rhodey mutters without opening his mic. Freak Latverian weather patterns are one thing, but his baby has the power and antenna size to talk to JARVIS from the bottom of the Marianas Trench; storm drains aren’t going to be a problem for War Machine. In-ear coms won’t hack it though. He toggles on-channel. “Want me to swing by the tower and pick up stronger radios before-- Ohup.” 

He rears back from the black mouth of the storm drain, slipping sideways on his jets to avoid a spray of viscous, shiny...something. It hits the river and floats like an oil slick, JARVIS outlining it in blue as he scans it. 

_“All right, map on board. No time for detours, CanCanCannon. Falcon can relay. Dropping in, now,”_ Clint says from the other end of the tunnel, his signal on the map turning green as J finishes loading the topography to his phone. _“We’ll have local comms, should be fine.”_

“Well, before you go off comms completely -- _like an idiot_ \-- I just saw something spit tar out of the storm drain at me, and its aim wasn't bad. JARVIS is getting volatile hydrocarbons and xylene off it, be advised.” 

_“Falcon?”_ Nat queries, audibly working on her own manhole cover and dropping it with an impressive clang. _“Ah. What do you know, they don’t like loud noises.”_

_“Xylene?"_ Sam says. _"That stuff's toxic. Solvent syndrome, don’t breathe in the fumes, don’t get it on you. It affects cognition and balance so that's bad news.”_

_“In a high-altitude, no mask kind of way?”_

_“In a ‘depresses the central nervous system’ so watch your reaction times kind of way.”_

Rhodey fires a flare up the storm drain with no regrets. He’s the only one with onboard air, though Thor would probably be immune, since not even hard vacuum bothers him. The image JARVIS compiles as the flare travels through the tunnel is moderately horrifying. Those are definitely roaches of unusual size. 

“Okay, I’m gonna send y’all a photograph before you go out of signal, because... these guys are a bit of a shock.” 

A chorus of groans starts up from the more human side of the team as they check the photo, and Thor laughs in a way that implies glee and imminent destruction.

 _“All right,"_ Nat says crisply, _"I’m releasing the Hulk on the roaches at my location. Hawkeye, coming in hot behind you.”_

Bruce groans again, and it upshifts to an inhuman roar of disgust that Rhodey can still hear echoing weirdly through the pipes around him after J fades the Hulk off the team channel. Dust and grit patters on the armor a second later, and he imagines the Hulk is getting down to some serious stomping. It doesn't go too badly with jazz.

XXXXXX

Today is different. 

Today was breakfast, down in the kitchen, because Steve pretends not to know how to use the microwave, and the rest of the people that live here are almost comically willing to give Tony space when he bares his teeth.

Usually he wants space. Sometimes he doesn't. The kitchen is full of good things, like his espresso machine and the holoprojectors in all the tabletops. So today when Steve went out the open door, Tony went with him. Steve likes jumping down all the stairs, and Tony can see the appeal. 

Tony dreamed about flying last night. He likes the flying dreams.

Breakfast also featured Bruce. He touched Tony's hand, and they played the stupid words game on a tablet, so no one else could see. Tony is one-fifth of the green bar better at matching the written words than the spoken ones, because the written words have smells or colors sometimes, the same ones like they always did. Bruce thinks this is very interesting. Bruce always listens when Tony doesn't want to play anymore.

Although today he showed Tony the trend lines again. The scores show a trend of slow improvement, but with all the practice, of course Tony is somewhat better at the stupid words game than the first time he played. There are so many variables, and the trend is so gradual -- he could be learning workarounds, not regaining what he lost. Correlation is not causation. Tony snarled at Bruce, and Steve put Tony's breakfast far across the room, under the side table.

Tony should perhaps feel slighted, but he likes it under the side table. He ate and felt better and woke startled from a doze when the alert went off.

Today is different, because the whole team has left with their breakfast dishes still on the table, and Steve is listening to all their voices over the crackly comm channel and pacing, back and forth, back and forth.

XXXXXX

Rhodey eases forward into the outlet pipe, staying well above the clicking, hissing group of giant roaches. “J, do we know any normal-sized cockroaches that spit xylene?” 

_“Negative. Searches return information on bombardier beetles and ant species with projectile chemical weapons, however. Genetic manipulation is still within the realm of possibility.”_

“Right. Let me know when we hit science fiction, okay? Meantime, don’t nobody breathe in the spit.” He bumps up against the concrete roof of the tunnel to avoid a jet of-- aww, man, it comes from their butts. Damn. “J, do my filters have a capacity limit for this stuff?”

_“Fortunately, no. The masks available to Hawkeye, Widow -- and, were he to deploy, the Captain -- have a capacity of six grams. At current concentrations, an effective use period of four hours.”_

It was borderline; he’d have to resupply them at some point to be safe. A mission in the tunnels rarely took less than six or eight.

 _"So, um, guys,"_ Clint says ominously. _"Hulk turned one inside out just now, and this is not bug guts. It's bug guts and robot guts._ Cockrobots."

There's an appalled silence. 

_"All in favor of calling them 'roboroaches' instead,"_ Sam says, and is drowned out by the chorus of "Aye!"

 _"Cockrobots,"_ Clint insists. _"It rhymes with 'crock pots'! Guys!"_

"I'm giving up leave for this?" Rhodey says. "No. No. And I'm telling Tony no through you: _no_. I have to tell my nieces about our adventures. No one says 'cockrobot' to any reporter ever."

 _"You all are no fun,"_ Clint grouses.

"Y'all are assholes," Rhodey says. "Lighting up now.” 

He hits the floodlights and roboroaches scuttle in alarmed chaos away from the beams, climbing the sides and aiming thick sprays of tar at him. He burns it out of the air with a repulsor blast and it goes up in thick, black smoke. JARVIS gets some good readings from that, but he’s not Tony, he doesn’t know what to do with the information. He aims his machine gun instead and rips into them. 

Bullets ping off into the distance and a freshly enraged gout of tar sprays upward, but Thor is the only one downwind of this tunnel; it's narrow enough for him to guard comfortably by himself if the roaches decide to make a break for the surface.

Unfortunately for Thor's bug stomping plans, most of the roaches seem to be going the other direction. Deeper. Toward the rest of the team, stationed between these storm sewers and the subway tunnels. There's no direct connection on the maps, because most of the storm sewers run _above_ the subway tunnels and the last thing New York needs is a more reliable way of flooding the subway with stormwater and sewer overflow during a storm, but there are places where they come close -- and there's more of a breeze down here than there should be. Rhodey cuts loose to get ahead of the swarm, hoping to turn them back the other way, and skids sparks across the arched brick ceiling when _three of the roaches leap up onto him at once_.

"Shit! They can jump!"

Their legs are barbed and hooked, the sharp points catching on the articulating plates as he rolls to shake them off. Tar oozes onto the suit and a new overlay pops up on the damage visualization in the corner of the HUD; not a suit integrity breach yet, but the possibility of one. 

He smashes the most stubborn roach against the tunnel ceiling and tweaks his repulsors for more heat; eat boiling exhaust you slimy bastards. A roach meets a grisly and explosive end behind him. The bottleneck widens out again a few meters in, and with the roaches on the walls leaping for him, he picks up speed. 

_“Shit, confirmation on breach into the subway system,”_ Widow reports. _“It's one hell of a hole, people. Hulk’s gone ahead, backtracking to the source; we’re gonna set up here, see if we can limit egress.”_

“On my way to you, Widow--” 

_“Copy. We hear you coming. Falcon, plug the gap, these things have wings, let's not find out if they know how to use them.”_

Rhodey winces in the confines of the mask, barreling past a tunnel entrance spewing roaches by the hundred. “Think I’ve found where they’re coming from. Pinging your maps now.” He tucks in close to the wall of the tunnel as Hulk barrels past in the opposite direction, using his giant palms to knock roaches off the walls and squishing them under his feet. 

_“Falcon, respond,”_ Nat tries again. 

Damn, the radios are out. He’s still got signal, but the earpieces aren’t making it out. Tony would have rerouted everything by now, without even thinking twice. “J, anything we can do about that?”

_“Ah, yes. Rerouting now. My apologies, Widow.”_

“ _Later, J. Deploy Falcon, now. We knew there would be gaps, we plug them as we go,”_ she says, voice punctuated with weapons fire and minor detonations. 

Rhodey takes a roach to the chestplate and has to slow down while the tar gunks up his sensors, manually fighting the fucker off. The carapace crunches weirdly under his hand, hard robotic parts resisting in places, and yielding biology oozing ichor in others. The HUD fuzzes, then clears again as he scrapes the worst of the gunk off his faceplate, kicking back up to speed as more roaches take their chances with his repulsor exhaust.

 _"Whoa!"_ Clint suddenly yells. Rhodey would accelerate more, except it's not quite the tone of Clint yelp that would indicate 'a giant roach just jumped onto my face.' Genuine startlement, yes. _"We have unrequested backup! Cap just blew past me!"_

 _"Repeat,"_ Nat requests tersely.

_"Cap is here, suited up, with the shield, and just ran past me down the tunnel. Towards your position, Widow."_

Nat swears viciously in Russian and finishes up with _"Did he have a comm or is he just here for the scenery and the swimming?"_

_“He’s mute!”_

_“But not deaf, Barton, answer the damn question!”_

_“Cowl was up, couldn’t tell.”_

“The current edition has integral coms, he’s listening,” Rhodey interjects. He just about spots the muzzleflash of Nat’s gun before he sweeps past her and brakes with all thrusters, hitting his floodlights again. The roaches hiss and momentarily scatter to the shadows, hard headshields tucking down away from the light. The hole Natasha’s guarding is maybe two meters deep, three across -- and on the other side of a layer of concrete, a thick hunk of bedrock and a second layer of concrete and tiles, there’s a subway track. 

“Any of them get past you, Widow?” 

“Unknown, they were eating the tunnel bigger when I got here.” 

The macerated remains of maybe twenty bugs are scattered around, and J identifies the work of a frag grenade. Nice. He sends flares in Clint’s direction, hoping to catch sight of the shield before Cap gets overwhelmed in the massed insects. The roaches are creeping forwards again, urged on by sheer numbers as shiny brown carapaces build up in a solid mass on the edge of the light, so Rhodey starts firing microcharges into the horde. The holes he makes last seconds before reinforcements boil into the space and he can’t see a fucking thing. 

“Damnit J, how’d he get all the way here without setting off some kind of alert?” 

“ _I’m sure I couldn’t say.”_

 _“JARVIS...”_

“ _I have seen no evidence of decreased tactical capacity, physical capability, or even general intelligence. Therefore I see no reason the Captain, who hung back quite admirably until breach into civilian territory became imminent, should not engage.”_

“J, he’s acting on instinct!” 

_“Don’t you humans always?”_

“ _Later, Rhodes,”_ Nat snaps while she’s reloading, crouched behind a chunk of half-eaten concrete. “ _J, we will be having words. In the meantime, everyone, get fucking shooting.”_

Rhodey shuts up, lays down fire, and does what he's told. Nat isn’t big on swearing; usually she's much less flappable than this. But he does run a quick calculation on a sidebar. If Cap's top running speed is 35 mph, it should have taken him at least half an hour to get here on surface streets.

To do that, he'd need to leave at the same time as the quinjet. Which he didn't. Even if the team overlooked him, reports of him would have been on the police scanners this whole time. 

Rhodey groans quietly and keeps his suspicions to himself. "You damn well better watch his back, J," he says in the privacy of his helmet, and gets a distracted beep in reply.

XXXXXXXXX

Today is different, because today is the best day ever. Proof that flying is just as good as he remembered. 

It isn't as easy as he remembered. But his friend knows how to use pictures instead of words, knows what words still have colors or smells and what words don't, knows all their old fast ways of saying _yes_ and _no_ and _this_. To both their surprise, it's enough.

Tony drifts through the tunnels, nearly silent, nearly invisible, and looks for the Problem the rest are too busy to find. And he finds it.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The explosions start near the Hulk; snap-bangs that echo along the tunnels and scatter mechanical parts across the tunnel floors. 

“ _Agent Romanoff, find cover, I repeat, find cover. Incoming detonation.”_

The progression of explosions ripples towards Rhodey, successive pops getting more and more frequent until it’s one rolling wall of noise that batters Rhodey’s sensors. J shuts off internal speakers and engages a blast wave protocol that Rhodey didn’t ask for just as the thick wall of roaches he’s been holding off heaves towards him. 

Individual roaches explode like popcorn going off, their insides becoming _outside_ , and Rhodey keeps his mouth _very closed_ when black crap splatters on his visor. 

The wave of detonations passes him and he hears J give Barton a similar warning on the team com. 

“ _Steve! What are you--”_ The explosions reach Nat and the distinctive ring of vibranium tells him exactly what Steve’s up to. _“Cap is with me, fellas. Someone find Tony._ ” 

Stunned in the sudden stillness, Rhodey drops to the tunnel floor; there’s nothing left of them. Not one twitch in the pile of broken carapaces. It's safe to assume Tony’s done something to cause this, and it’s Rhodey’s job to find him, now.

The distant echoes of roach-popping die away, and Rhodey can make out Clint's quiet swearing and Thor's audible disappointment. The Hulk, on the other hand, has decided that unmoving roaches are even easier to smash, and there's a lot of smashing to get done around here; his victorious roar echoes down the tunnel from a few branches back. But the comparative quiet makes it much easier to catch the new voice on the comm.

 _"Is that Tony?"_ Clint says, and Rhodey snaps his head up; Steve is belting along the tunnel, mask on and mic off, leaping the piles of roach bits like he's in the last lap of a hurdle relay. He vaults through the hole into the subway system and then stalls undecided, looking left and right along the tracks.

 _"Rrrrrrrr,"_ Tony says again, with a sort of pained urgency. _"rrrrrr….rrr...rr,"_ and then trails off into panting; shit, Rhodey recognizes the creak of overstrained servos.

The map riding in the left sidebar of his HUD suddenly shifts to center and blooms with detail; there's a route in neon blue, marked through the tunnels and ending just above the C Line in the thickly-rendered foundation of a building. Rhodey shoots through the hole and follows it to the right, hearing Steve fall in after him and sparing a moment's hope that they won't meet a train.

 _"I have contacted authorities and issued an emergency systemwide subway shutdown and evacuation of this area,"_ JARVIS reports on the team comm. The map on Rhodey's HUD pulls out a bit and overlays with red circles, and oh boy, the innermost bright-red one is three blocks wide. _"One or more buildings are in danger of collapse due to roach damage in the foundations."_

 _"They were in the subway tunnels from the start,"_ Nat says grimly. _"That's what I was afraid of. Hawkeye, Thor, get to the surface; I'll run past the Hulk and see if he follows. War Machine, you're on Tony?"_

“Yeah, and Cap's with me. I'll see if I can help whatever Tony's doing, pull him out if I can't." Rhodey switches to internal. "Status report on the suit, J; the hell’s he doing?”

J pops up his telemetry and Rhodey has to grit his teeth or he’ll yell at someone. The data is illegible; cascading graphs and diagrams, components flashing red in ways he can’t pick out before the next error snags his attention. Whatever Tony’s doing, he’s exerting all the force the suit can bring to bear. Which is worrying in the context of all the very dead roaches. 

He blasts along the tracks of the C Line, wondering how to go _up_ from here, and ah. That's how. Definitely not a hole that should be there, but he'll take it. It's a tight fit for War Machine, but his baby's had worse.

Up into an unlit sub-sub-sub basement, the traces of human construction -- a handrail there, and the stubby top half of utility stairs projecting out into nothing up above -- almost completely obscured by the roach tunnels honeycombing the concrete, and the organic and semi-organic mounds scattered everywhere. No live roaches, and very few dead ones. Rhodey follows infrared to the midspan of the far chamber, where a matte-black and svelte Iron Man suit has placed itself under a half-buckled girder holding up the ceiling, the jetboots going full blast.

"I see your problem," Rhodey says. The original supporting pillar is useless, half-eaten by the roaches, with chunks of concrete crumbling out between the rebar. One end is neatly laser-cut, severing it from the ceiling so Tony had room to insert himself instead. 

Tony grunts in greeting, and his gauntlets screech along the steel as he gets a better grip. The girder is trying to twist as it bends.

"Ping warning," Rhodey says, then images the whole room, using War Machine's hugely powerful surveillance suite to render the entire basement complex in less than a quarter second, deviations from true color-coded down to the millimeter. Tony hisses at the burst of static, though Rhodey knows both their suits dampen external input down to human-norm amplitude and frequency bands.

Tony is under the worst buckle point, though Rhodey sees a similar problem in the same girder two floors up, and there are voids at a few places on the other side of the foundation walls that indicate nothing good for this building's long-term prospects. They need to replace Tony with something else that will last long enough for them, and the rest of the evacuees, to get out.

"You see what I see, J?" 

A countdown pops up in the corner of the HUD, just under the evac area map, decreasing in erratic dribs and drabs as groups of people make it outside the red zone, and JARVIS smoothly replies _"The two pillars in the southwest corner are structurally redundant, and that corner is in good condition."_

The left one, since it's farther away from the more compromised walls. Rhodey bellies up to it and cuts -- carefully, just enough to go through this pillar and no further -- with the big thermal laser, mindful of the drip of melted rebar when he hovers around the hot edges. It takes three passes at the top and two at the bottom, and then he pushes it out sideways, away from the short laser-cut stubs he'd left in the ceiling and floor.

There isn't enough clearance to turn it horizontal, but he's had some experience carrying unwieldy loads in the suit. He bear-hugs it and slowly shuffles the fifteen meters back to Tony. Even War Machine's boots can't take it if he drops this on his toes.

He sets it down gently when he's close, then cuts the old crumbling pillar fully out of the way and levels off the stub as flat as he can make it.

"On three?"

Tony doesn't reply, but the low subsonic hum of his jetboots flares a brighter blue.

"One, two--" Rhodey lifts and slides the bottom of the new pillar sideways into place on the stub and Tony stays in place as long as possible, stretching to let down the girder partly on the pillar before scooting out of the way and pushing at the top, positioning the pillar squarely under the buckle point with a horrendous grinding screech and a shower of sparks. Then he cuts off his bootjets and falls down to the floor, staggering to hands and knees as he lands.

They both freeze for a moment, waiting to see if anything will shift. In the corner of Rhodey's eye, the counter passes under 30.

The girder groans, a long complaining set of metal knocks, but the new pillar stays stable. Time to get the hell out of here.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A new voice comes over the comm while they're in the quinjet on the way back. _All_ of them, _in_ the quinjet, no Tony, not clinging to the outside. Inside.

_"Hi ho, ladies and gents! All your fine selves in one piece?"_

Bruce adjusts the blanket around himself, trying not to dislodge his mask or get concrete dust on his glasses. "Hank, you've been watching?"

_"JARVIS enabled me. If you need discreet medical attention when you land…"_

"Please," Bruce says fervently. "And we need the portable showers."

_“What level of contamination, doctor?”_

Bruce scratches the bridge of his nose, dislodging a piece of grit from under the pads of his glasses. It patters against his mask and he sighs. “I have no idea. It’s an excreted biofluid; it could be swimming with bacteria, or the xylene might have sterilised it. Level Two for all of us, to be safe, with new clothing before the checkups.”

_"One of those, hm? I'll set up the privacy screens."_

Across the aisle, Tony scrapes at the gunk covering his arc reactor and flicks it off the gauntlet with a disgusted shake. Reminded, Bruce adds, "Steve and Tony snuck along. They'll need showers too."

_"JARVIS did mention that both my patients had slipped out. I'll confer with him about the best way to proceed, never fear."_

"Thanks, Hank."

_"Fly safe, friends."_

When they land on the tower's recessed quinjet pad, the portable showers are set up and waiting; the med team is anonymous in their scrubs and breathing masks, but even in scrubs and mask the seven-foot blue-furred and clawed Hank McCoy stands out. His eyes crinkle behind his little librarian glasses as their tired team spills down the ramp and into various degrees of collapse, Natasha striding ahead first for her solo run through the showers.

Bruce awkwardly aborts offering Hank a handshake as the male group washes up in the decon tent’s atrium. “Dr. McCoy, thank you for coming out in person.” 

Hank waves him off, adjusting the intersection between glasses and gas mask. Bruce sympathises. “It’s no trouble. Now, let’s get you all out of your un-uniforms, shall we?” 

Steve and Tony are standing stiffly, faceplate-to-gasmask, and Steve’s vocalising something quiet and clicky, almost like Dummy. Wearing his armor Tony stands straighter than usual, but it's clear only Steve has gotten him out of the 'jet and down the ramp; and if Tony’s so shy _in_ the armor, Bruce dreads to think what he’ll be like out of it. At least he won’t need to strip off if the armor kept its seal. Steve, on the other hand, is filthy. 

“Can Tony get by with a rinse, J?” Bruce asks the air. 

“ _I am afraid not, Doctor. I am reading a minor joint buckle, which may or may not have permitted ingress of contaminants in a localised pattern. Airways remain secure.”_ An arm tentatively emerges from the dearmament walk on the far side of the Tony and Steve show, and clicks at them. 

Tony is unimpressed and shuffles back. Steve shoulder-bumps him in JARVIS’ direction and Tony snorts in derision. This isn’t going to be easy. In his natural state Tony is a master of evasion and redirection, but in Iron Man he can ground his stance and simply refuse to be moved.

Both sets of skills are in use now; he’s got his spikes in the fibercrete, and he’s also undoing the buckles on Steve's contaminated uniform.

“Suggestions?” Bruce asks, _sotto voce_ to Hank. 

“Darling, I'll assist in peeling your SIC any way I can. Shall we?” Hank gestures forward.

“Yeah. We may as well. I _think_ Tony knows you were coming...” 

They share a grimace on Bruce's part and an arched brow on Hank's; an IQ of 160+ with no language skills to temper it does not make dealing with Tony easier. Bruce feels like he’s wading in the dark, hunting poisonous frogs. He tries to make himself helpful by bringing them a biohazard bag. Tony’s reaction is invisible like this, since he’s making no effort to use the over-exaggerated body language needed to make it out of the suit.

Steve drops his helmet in the offered bag, then -- looking uncharacteristically shrewd -- stops working the catches and just taps on the edges of Tony’s chest plate. By some special permission, the outermost layer of reinforced titanium pops off and Steve grins, laying it on the floor. 

Tony pops the faceplate to give Steve both barrels: aggrieved eyebrows over big, sad eyes. Steve laughs silently when Tony loses the pout as soon as the rank smell of the roach guts on his legs hits him. 

After that, Tony can’t get out of the suit fast enough. JARVIS descends on him without any problem, and Tony emerges utterly butt naked from the suit and undersuit in record time. A few spots of black slime mark his skin and he picks up a few more when he hides behind Steve; a groan marks the moment he realises they’re in for a shower. 

Bruce offers him a gas mask and wonder of wonders, Tony takes it, then dubiously holds it to his face. Hank offers a big towel, and Tony stops stock still and stares. He doesn't move when Hank steps closer, and for a moment Bruce hopes--

Tony lowers the mask and snarls. He's planted between Steve and Hank, and goes down into a vibrating near-crouch when Hank holds out the towel, but he doesn't retreat.

Hank drops the towel and steps back; Tony holds eye contact, teeth still bared as he puts the mask back to his face and takes a huge breath. He isn't covering the reactor now; he's ready to move in any direction, all his attention on Hank. Steve looks faintly worried.

Hank steps back again, and says "Interesting." He starts undoing the ties of his scrub shirt, revealing an improbably long stripe of blue-furred chest, and offers his elbow to Bruce absently. "I believe I'll join you in the showers, Dr Banner."

"You weren't contaminated," Bruce points out.

Hank pulls his own mask away just long enough to flash a grin. "They don't call me The Beast for nothing, my dear. Tony will never listen to me if I back down now, and that won't do." He tugs off his scrub shirt and tosses it at Steve, who is happy to drape it haphazardly over Tony, obscuring the reactor if not his nakedness, then gives Hank a significant look and starts sidling toward the showers. Hank plays along perfectly, and Tony stays between them, growling all the way under his mask.

Shirtless Hank is an awesome sight. With his blanket left in a biohazard bag on the ramp, Bruce is also shirtless at the moment, and he thinks he may never think of himself as a hairy man again; elbow in elbow with The Beast. Hank's fur is soft against his ribs and down his side, like he uses conditioner all over.

"You need Tony to listen," Bruce repeats, reminding himself not to get too hopeful. "Is there something to tell him?"

Hank's eyes crinkle again. "Yes, and not just him; after you all get settled, I have a treatment plan to propose."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Tony does not _know_ the blue person, but Tony can see he is dangerous. Bruce can be trusted to take care of himself, but Steve never will. Tony stays between them. Blue won't get past him.

All Tony really wants is to be warm, and clean, and go back to the safe place with Steve and sleep, where no one can see them. His eyes want to close, if he relaxes; the floor wants to lure him down. They can have lunch later. Who needs lunch.

Flying is hard work. His legs are shaky. That much is the same as before.

The water starts without any button pressing which is startling and not considerate, and Steve goes into the spray with his uniform still on. Good plan, Tony will stand watch, Steve is the dirtiest. The blue person is also getting very wet -- Tony has control of the only dry spot -- and his blue-person fur is going purple and heavy and flat. He looks smaller this way, but not much smaller. His shoulders are wider than Steve, and he could certainly jump up a floor of stairs at a time if he wanted to. 

“ARGK!” Tony yells at the hands pulling on his hips from behind -- _no_ Steve, now is not the time -- ah. Warm, soapy hands rubrub at the black itchy tar and bruises where the suit buckled. Scrubbing! This is acceptable. The mask keeps the water off his face, why didn't they have one sooner! And Tony backs into the spray, pushing Steve further. Hah, Steve's ‘fur’ also goes flat and dark in the water; not so different after all. 

Tony’s remains UP and black. Made of sterner stuff. 

Blue is done quickly, of course, no disgusting tar spots on him, and then Steve gets SCRUBBED. Tony acquires a scrubbing thing, fills with soap, and attacks the big black stain down the back of Steve's neck. Didn't clip his helmet down, never clips his helmet down. No choke at throat, have to clip, but noooo, Steve ‘forgets.’ 

He clicks at Steve; the ‘k’ sound is easy and angry-feeling. Bruce laughs, and yes, this is okay. Water not so evil after all. It's _warm_ , and gets rid of gross things. And of course Steve is naked for the ogling. But, not too much ogling; after all, there is Team all over the place. Clint joins them next, big muscles, good at spotting threats, and takes the shower by the door, covering their backs. He has bruises on his lower legs and a slight limp -- _Clint_ \-- but otherwise looks unhurt, as does Bruce, and Thor and Sam don't even have to scrub. 

Ah. Steve is clean, Tony is clean, Steve is clean, it's fine to go to the next compartment. A blue shadow on the other side of the plastic makes him hesitate. 

Steve nudges in that direction and Tony sets his feet while he looks for another way. Behind them, the entrance flaps are smeared with black, and the floor all over with footprints. He doesn't currently have a pulsed mid-infrared CO2 cartridge laser to invisibly cut a door, and also it will be cold that way. Blue person has strategic control over the towels.

Steve nudges again and Tony elbows him in an unbruised ab. This earns him a swift gnaw to the back of the neck and an unstoppable force at his back. They are going to the towels. Tony gripes and drags his feet pointedly. Complaint lodged. 

Steve, Steeeebee, ignores him with a huff, and pushes Tony onto a bench opposite Blue. There are towels for everyone, but Blue seems to have the lion's share, one on hips, one over shoulders, very wet one on the bench. There will be fur everywhere, Tony is certain.

Tony rubs a towel over his head to stop drips, then pops the mask off and puts it carefully on the bench for later use, if he needs it. He keeps an eye on Blue of course, but he is still surprised when Blue pitches a dry towel at him and slides to the floor, turning so his back is to Tony, and the towel. He is still very wet, especially behind his tall pointy ears. 

He wants...rubbing?

Tony pokes at him with his foot. Pokes harder. Throws the towel at him in an explosion of nerves and jitters backward when he turns, but Blue simply gives him a look and then yawns, showing teeth impressive enough to intrigue Tony nearly back into reach.

Steve makes a snorting noise and moves to sit on the bench, but no no no. Blue doesn't get to touch what is Tony's. Doesn't get towel rub from Steve either.

Tony squats on the bench and pokes the Blue. Harder. No Steve for him.

And then the blue person reaches back almost slowly and his arms are longer than Tony accounted for and Tony is gripped and hoisted, upside down, snarling and fighting, and deposited gently on a pile of towels with the blue person two meters away again before Tony can locate which surface is the floor.

He...appears to be safe? But then he thought that before someone _turned him upside down_. This is not acceptable behaviour. Tony wraps himself in towels and dries his floof without taking his eyes off Blue. In the corner of his eye, Steve-traitor is laughing disarmingly, through his nose. Tony throws the wet towel at him. 

Blue smiles briefly in Steve's direction and Tony bristles, but soon he is drying all that fur again and not being so threatening. Hmph. Tony is nearly dry, and if they have to wait for this chump, they will be here all day-- 

Blue shakes like a bear getting water out of his ears and Tony is no longer all dry. Blue’s eyes say ‘play with me’ and Tony squints dubiously. A clawed hand ‘walks’ along the towels towards Tony’s foot and, bemused, Tony moves it away. Blue snatches the hand back, pretending he was never doing anything at all, no of course not, with a conspiratorial grin for Tony. 

??? _What._

The hand reaches again, threatening the other foot and Tony stays perfectly, I-am-invisible, still. 

_WHAT--_

His whole leg convulses when fuzzfluff tickles along the bottom of his foot and he pitches over sideways to come up into a crouch. Blue is drying again like he did nothing at all, RUDE. Tony uses a towel to rub the ticklish feeling off his sole, and creeps around to be behind him. Ears twitch in his direction, but Blue cannot know exactly where he is by sound on this flooring so Tony's retaliation of giant body towel over the head remains a surprise. 

Tony feels good, mouth sneaking upwards in a smile he doesn't want to show. He rubs at his beard to hide it while Blue flails and twists like a helpless thing under the blanket, making hooting ‘oh no’ sounds in between laughter. 

Tony creeps closer while he's tangled and pulls on his toe-- 

“Aaah!” he cries as he's entangled in the big towel. Heavy, fluffy-soft arms wrap around him again and they are BOTH tangled! He wriggles and kicks, but does not try too hard; he doesn’t want to kick Blue and get clawed. 

Though, he has a suspicion that Blue does not claw people casually.

Mhmph. 

He jerks his chin up, freeing it from the towel, and cautiously sniffs the blue shoulder near his face. Ugh, lemon decon soap. Blue is very long, arms a big circle around him, and they loosen but Tony doesn’t try to escape. Steve is nearby, too. This is okay. Rhodey is butt naked over by the other bench and laughing into his hand. 

Tony’s okay. Blue is okay. 

For now. 

Blue feels vaguely familiar, in a distant way, like pigeons are familiar. A thing that exists somewhere, sometimes even nearby. When Tony finds himself blinking longer, the towely floor very enticing, he wriggles fully free and rights himself into a crouch, then finds another big one to tuck securely around himself, covering his light and his bruises and his soft places. Blue has fur, Tony feels more naked in comparison. 

Right. He is tired, he is dry, he has...wrestled the blue person and killed cockroaches and held up a building, he is hungry. 

He tells Steve this, imploringly, and Blue seems to understand him too, because they both get up and Tony can follow them out of the drying-space. The air outside is COLD, so they scoot quickly to the round living room, where JARVIS has a fire on the TV and there is hot air coming out of the vents. Blue makes noises that...almost translate, and Tony picks out the sounds for ‘food’ and ‘clothes.’ 

Ah, so Blue is supposed to be their minion today. This is acceptable as long as he understands that Steve needs to eat an entire cow. Tony climbs into the softest-soft sleep clothes Blue collects from Dummy. They have little pictures of Steve’s shield-protect all over the bottom half, and soft-worn-blue star on the chest of the top. This is good, Dummy has done well. Bruce comes over, blinking in his own soft clothes, and looks at Tony's bruises and gently presses his ribs around the worst one, works his fingertips through Tony's hair in a way Tony remembers. It isn't hard to hold still right now; it makes his eyes close, it feels so nice. Bruce finishes too soon, pats his shoulder and wanders away again. 

It is nice to be here, in the smaller eating room; the rest of Team split off to the bigger room and here it is Tony and Steve, Pepper and Rhodey and Bruce and Blue, and JARVIS is swirls and rotations of color in the air. Blue stays farthest from Tony, as if he understands what will make Tony comfortable, and it is. Comfortable. 

He would let anyone here touch him. It is like...a warm strong feeling inside, and on the outside, like a thousand little bubbles tickling and popping against his skin; all the hairs on his arms and back stand up for a few seconds, and he shudders and leans into Steve, pushes against the chair legs and table legs, but he doesn't want to go anywhere, just stay right here.

Steve gets his giant portion, Blue and Rhodey grill it for not very long at all, and Steve cuts off a quarter for Tony. Very nice, meaty-juicy, and Tony sits under Steve’s arm. The meat pulls apart in his fingers, requiring focus to eat.

He is starving; JARVIS was harder to understand without words, and splitting his brain in half to watch cockroaches and JARVIS’ pictures at the same time has made his head ache atrociously. 

Potatoes and greens appear on the table and Rhodey leans far over to rub Tony’s shoulders as he passes; Tony dips his cheek to the back of his hand in thanks. Small potatoes fit straight in the mouth, quite convenient. No one disturbs them while they eat. Blue's seat is on the other end of the table from where Tony is hiding under it, snug up against a load-bearing wall. 

More food appears than he’s gotten used to, and he pops his sightline up over Steve’s forearm to squint around suspiciously. Steve knocks him back gently and offers him the bread-wrapped sweet and sour meat. Carbs and protein, what are they trying? 

It makes Tony want to raid the fridge for a green smoothie.

Steve hums at him, then clicks in a direct copy of Dummy’s [curiosity]. Tony takes the food with a grumble and leans against Steve’s legs to wrap himself around it. It’s a novel flavor. Tony blames Blue for this, though it’s delicious anyway. 

By the time Steve stops insisting on passing him food, he’s so full that sitting up at the table doesn’t make him want to scuttle off into the safe room. He doesn’t want to scuttle _anywhere_. He climbs up, pulls several chairs together, cozies up next to Steve and sprawls to give his stomach some space. The table still hides him, mostly, and no one can walk behind him. Such a good wall. Thick and sturdy.

There’s a feeling about the others around the table that he knows means they’re going to try and tell him something. Pepper and JARVIS are doing something holographic, Bruce and Blue are swapping journals and papers over the table. Steve is tenser than he should be, after dinner. He understands words much better so the trick is to watch Steve and distract him away if they start talking about something that makes him all frowny. Tony puts his head down on the table and tries to keep his eyes open wide enough to watch.

Steve grins a bit, leaning forwards with elbows on the table, and Tony takes that to mean good news. Yeah, Tony will believe it when he sees it. Then Steve's face falls into solemn agreement, ominous enough to declare Tony right to doubt. He huffs into the tabletop and rolls an eye over to look at the holograms above the table. 

More brains, shocker. 

This time, there is a machine Tony recognises, too. It's for...cleaning. He made one. Sent it to...the downstairs people who make crazy things into working things. It connects to a person, takes blood in a tube, cleans it then puts it back through another tube. Tony is very much not sure why the picture is correlated to brains getting better, but then a picture of a human body with flecks of green swooshing through its blood pops up, and he wants to claw off the skin of his arms.

 _No._ Badsmell is not ALLOWED to still be in him. 

Steve grabs his hands when they scrabble against the table, presses them together palm to palm, and he tries to tug them free, fingers itching. Okay. Drug is still... _in_ him. In his blood. In his brain. In _Steve_. He hates it, hates it enough to make his throat close and heart feel like fire. But they want to get rid of it, okay. 

He nods at Steve; he has his scratching fingers under control. Steve eases off and sits back, leaving up his near hand tangled up with Tony's. 

More photographs appear, with big needles lying innocently on a white background, and Tony flinches. They are big, very much too big for comfort, and he doesn't want them not at all. 

They put the image of blood cleaning up again and yes Tony wants it, but why why why needles as well??? Needles for the tubes, for the blood. Big needles, for big tubes, to go faster. No. No, no.

The taste of good food is still on his tongue, but it's sour now and he curls over his hands, bumping his forehead on the table. He knows these needles won't be meant to damage, he knows. But they will hurt, they will be more metal in him, through his skin, that he doesn't want, that he has no choice. Steve’s hands fall warm on his back, and it helps.

Pepper hums soothingly and when he looks up, she swishes the hologram away. There’s a graph next, and a larger clearer version of the scans that JARVIS took, promising that his brain _will_ get better, that the badsmell will go away eventually even if they don't clean his blood with the needle machine. Tony looks closely at this graph, looks at it not once but several times to be sure. The trend is strong. It seems real. But the time axis...the time axis says eventually is a _long_ eventually, many-many times the time they have waited already. 

And. Sleep is important? JARVIS emphatically blinks the images of sleeping Tony, sleeping Steve, and shows charts of their sleep times; Steve's supersoldier short, Tony's broken into snatches scattered all over twenty-four hours. Both are color-coded _not enough_. Steve looks rueful and Tony hunches. Sleeping is always hard. Harder now that he has less to do.

Back to the brain graphs, the one for Steve; his shield-protect showing how he will get better faster with the blood-cleaning too, how his miracle brain will bounce back. Steve is nodding, scootching forward, but Tony is struck by immediate horror. Steve never protects himself, but stuck to a machine he will be vulnerable, his strength and speed useless. He flattens himself and hisses. No one is putting the big needles in Steve. 

No one. 

Not before...

He groans and kicks the floor. 

Tony has to go first. If Steve goes first, he can't protect himself, and Tony can't protect him, not so vulnerable, not pinned down. He feels sick. He _can't._ There are so many threats that biting won't work on, so many ways of protecting that he would have used, before. To keep Steve safe. Tony knows how much the badsmell took from him, he knows.

But the other way around. If Tony goes first. He will be vulnerable, but wordless Steve is still _strong_ and clever, reading people's bodies and sounds, and is ruthless to protect Tony. And Pepper is here, and _Rhodey_ , who will guard, who will not let anyone touch the reactor.

Yes. He will go first, and then he will be smart-fast-clever enough to protect Steve while he is hooked up. Steve, who is listening intently to Blue, his hands on Tony’s back and shoulder still, who does not like being cold, who protects his blood like it is a virus. 

Tony shrugs out of the hold and climbs up onto the table in front of Steve. He twitches Steve's hands off again, grabs them and pushes them down, then holds his own arm out demandingly.

All around the table, people make surprised grunts and chirrps and words that mean even less. He summons over the hologram and matches his arm to the blood machine tubes. Yes, he is sure. 

JARVIS sounds worried. Pepper and Rhodey are surprised, and Bruce has the worried-face too. Blue looks perplexed, cocking his head before his face opens in understanding. He rumbles and the others listen, and they all shift a little as they understand too. Steve snuffles at Tony's back and his warm strong arms rise up when Tony lets them go, to hug him around the middle and feel how he is trembling, terrified.

But Tony shakes his arm and bares his teeth, and Bruce looks around at all the others and then looks back at Tony, and nods.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Tony looks exhausted. He was tired in the decon showers earlier, his posture drooping in the warm water, his reactions just that bit slower when Hank McCoy started tumbling him around. Clint saw him flee to the Hulk room after dinner, Steve trailing after, but if anything the shadows under his eyes are darker now; it's clear that he hasn't slept.

It's also clear _why_. Sheesh. Clint would have put good money on Tony never approaching the med lab under his own power, but he does, in stops and starts, Steve stopping and starting with him. The team is giving them a wide escort, making sure the corridors are cleared so that no one startles either of them; Tony is shaking visibly, and Steve has snarled twice at doorways that seem too dark or ominous.

McCoy has them set up in the farthest isolation room, where no one has any reason to walk past the door, and the HVAC ductwork runs inside the back wall, a massive concrete tunnel that Tony unerringly puts his back to when he has the chance. Tony follows Pepper's lead with stuttering determination, and Clint watches their backs. The med staff, interrupted from their work with yesterday's walking wounded, peer around corners occasionally and Clint makes the angry eyebrows at them. From fully a hundred feet away, Steve bristles and backs him up with a low growl.

McCoy and Bruce are waiting in the modified isolation room, a dialysis machine set up and ready, and Tony stalls completely at the doorway. Ostensibly, he's examining the door lock and hinges, but most of his attention is on the room itself. It's full of bits of hulkroom toys, foam construction blocks and stuff, and the medical gurney has been cannibalised-slash-frankenstein’ed so the rail is fixed to the side of a high double bed.

Pepper and Rhodey nod at the doctors inside; Pepper looks Tony in the eyes for a moment, and he rubs her palm with his cheek while Clint swaps places with Rhodey. War Machine and Widow will guard from outside the room, Hawkeye from inside. (Really the inside watch ought to be Nat's job, but Tony still won't go within twenty feet of her, and Rhodey is constantly on call while the team is understrength. In here, Clint can keep watch with a sniper's patience and nurse his bruised ankle at the same time.)

Once Tony gets himself together he stands up straight and stalks inside, examining everything and giving the machine a wide berth. Clint closes the door behind himself and settles on a visitor's chair to guard it.

The machine itself is an unthreatening box, about waist high and maybe a foot across, with the Stark logo prominent on the side. The tubes snaking from it are capped off with the familiar IV connector things, and coiled neatly on a tray with their needles and a roll of tape. The needles really are huge: a large bore size to let the flow rate get good and high. 

"It would be fascinating to see Tony's brainscan right now," McCoy says softly. "The compound inhibits communication between certain parts of the brain, including the 'rational overseer' sections. But he is managing to act counter to his instincts."

"I've always wished I could get a scan of the other guy," Bruce says, and they talk to each other at the foot of the bed, letting Tony explore as slowly as he wants, taking the pressure off him. He tumbles the construction blocks around, makes sure nothing is hiding under the bed, and checks the power outlets. Bruce rubs his upper lip and then tucks his hands into his armpits; he knows what that means, and he doesn't look thrilled by it. 

Steve is more comfortable more quickly. He sits on the bed and looks at the needles mournfully, then at Bruce.

“I know. Sorry. I promise he'll sleep through most of it, you can hug him the whole time.” 

Steve appears slightly mollified but disappointed in Bruce in some subtle, unpointed way. Clint cringes in sympathy.

Tony catches his eye again; he's sneaking up on the dialysis machine with a _screwdriver._ Clint clicks his tongue in disapproval and Tony twitches like he's brushing off a fly. Ugh, really. Clint gets up and pads over to watch over Tony's shoulder as he very proficiently whips the covers off, then pokes at the bag of straw-yellow fluid inside. It's branded too, Tony's name stamped on the bag, a date and some abbreviated notations added in permanent marker in Bruce's scrawl.

Clint shifts to touch his shins against Tony's back and Tony curls over his knees, tapping the clear red handle of the tiny screwdriver against his temple. Then the weight on Clint's legs increases and Tony drops the screwdriver in favour of growling and gripping Clint's BDUs. 

His rocking, creaking moan makes Clint's heart shrivel up, but then he starts nodding against Clint's knee. 

“Y’sssss,” Tony hisses, “nnnnnn, nnnnnnsssss.” 

Clint's jaw works, it feels like too much to swallow, too much to ask. He crouches next to this...snarling, conflicted scrap of his bossman, and points to the bag. A questioning open face, then a smiling thumbs-up, a frowning thumbs-down, and he lets his face go back to neutral. Tony looks at him full-on for only the second time, then makes an expression with way too many teeth to be a frown. He slaps the cover back on and makes Clint hold the screws while he reattaches it.

The screwdriver back in his pocket, Tony prowls to the door. He checks the hinges, the bolt, and the keypad, cracking it open to look at both sides and sniff at the startled Rhodey out there. JARVIS obligingly chunks the bolt back and forth a few times and Tony pushes the door closed again, throwing the manual lever as well. Then he turns back around, swallows, and hesitantly approaches the bed, climbing all the way onto it and curling up at the far end, sandwiched between Steve and the wall. He doesn't look at the dialysis machine, or the tray with the IVs.

"That all right, docs?"

"We brought the extra-long tubing," Bruce says. "It'll reach anywhere on the bed. We just have to make sure it doesn't get kinked or tangled."

"Let's get started," McCoy says, stretching his very long arms upward and popping his back. His gloves go all the way to his shoulders and look more like part of his uniform than medical equipment. "Unkind to make him wait. Doctor, while you're scrubbing up, I'll assist Hawkeye with the anaesthetic."

Clint wheels the smaller cart over, with its vaporiser and little gas canisters, and fits a clear mask on one end of its tubes. "I used to do this with elephants, you know," he says, making sure Tony knows where he is. "Much more of a production, getting the masks on them." Tony watches from the corner of his eye as Clint demonstrates the on/off pressure switch built into the mask, then mimes holding the mask over his face; that gets Clint a full-on surprised stare.

Bruce has his back turned, washing up in the little sink; Tony looks at Clint, then Steve, then McCoy double-checking all the connections and settings on the vaporizer, then back at the mask. Clint sets it down gently on Tony's knee. Tony prods at it, his twitchy, speedy fingers finding the switchplate and skimming over the tubes perfunctorily. He doesn’t like that they're draping over Steve; he pushes them away, onto the sheets. 

Clint props a tablet against the bedrail, and JARVIS brings up a diagram without being asked. It shows blue flowing from the mask as an awake patient holds it on; the flow stops as the patient goes to sleep and drops the mask. Lines connect the sleeping patient to a box, with arrows showing the direction of flow, and there is a blue bag on the line going back in. Blue Z's float from the patient's head. They sleep until a progress bar finishes, then both lines go away and the patient wakes with two small white bandages on their wrist.

Tony plays it three times. The third time, he touches under his collarbone just to one side of his sternum. After a steady contemplation, he takes his shirt off all at once, and taps a raised bit of scar in the same place. There’s a little raised dome there, a knot of scars, and Tony presses on it with a pained expression, before slashing a hand at the ambiguous patient’s abused wrist.

JARVIS changes the diagram so that the lines carrying blood go to and from the patient’s chest instead, and flashes it green. Clint’s skin crawls a little, he’s not...sure why, exactly, but that patch of scarring is multi-layered and of all different ages. It just doesn’t sit right with him.

Steve makes a sad _mmnnnh?_ sound, his big, shy hands wrapping around Tony’s fingers. Tony snorts at him and Steve relaxes again, Clint’s not sure why. It relaxes him too, though. Tony fiddles with the mask a little more, feeling how the flow stops if the pressure switch isn't constantly held down. He doesn't object when Steve takes the wad of discarded shirt and sneaks an arm around his chest, hiding the reactor in the fabric.

 

Then Tony holds the mask to his face. He glares over top of it while he takes his first huff of sedative-slash-painkiller, and Clint catches the moment it hits his bloodstream; his eyes go all soft and hazy, then snap to wariness again. His gaze darts all over the room, the door, the machine, the doctors, and Clint can’t help but shift his chair in front of the door. JARVIS has it locked down tighter than Fort Knox but it can’t hurt to be a physical representation of that. 

Tony takes another breath in the mask. 

Bruce and Hank are conferring over a book of calculations, talking about getting an IV sedative into Tony before they go for the central line, Bruce arguing reluctantly for and Hank quietly against it. 

"Tony told us he doesn't want an IV. If we try it now, he'll be annoyed and we will not have listened to what communication he can cobble together. Besides, he is cogent. I say we trust him as we would a normal patient, and use standard procedure."

"Go straight for a central line? Via a permanent central line port? Hank, I didn't even know he had that. It's not mentioned in any of his records-- I don't think anyone knew," Bruce says unhappily. "Except JARVIS."

"JARVIS, may we-- ah. Thank you." A complicated diagram pops up from their holoprojecting tablet and Hank spins it this way and that with familiar gestures. Clint could theorize that the rib-looking parts of it are ribs, but he'd rather not. The reactor goes a lot deeper than he really wants to think about. "An elegant design," Hank finally says. "Not necessary for the reactor, but integrated seamlessly with it. Someone...took thought for his recovery, and his future, when they added this port."

"He's touchy about the reactor, and this is something he's kept private. Using it while he's still conscious will distress him."

"And yet that is what he wants. With that clear request, I believe he has set the bounds of his consent, Doctor."

Clint agrees, privately. If Tony can’t hold himself still, Stevie’ll do it for him, anyway. And he’s in control of his pain meds this way, right up until the last moment. 

Almost like he understands the conversation, Steve gives a pointed cough at the docs and wraps his arms more securely around Tony, using his heavy limbs to keep Tony trapped safely against his chest.

“I’m really not a doctor, Hank, just...take the lead here, please,” Bruce hisses eventually. “In context, I trained in a Kolkatan slum; _I’ve never done dialysis_ , just--” 

Steve glances over at Bruce, then at Clint, and rolls his eyes. Clint grins back; _yeah, buddy, I know._

“Yes, of course. Though... While I agree that your conversion from physics to medicine -- _hear me out,_ Doctor!-- was not done in ideal circumstances, you are in possession of a singularly valuable gift, given to no other physician in the world; Mr. Stark's trust.”

“You old romantic. He _bit_ me,” Bruce objects. 

“Nevertheless.” 

Clint snorts, then rubs his nose when they both look at him. He shrugs. “He disarmed my weapon, threw away the slide spring, and then gave it back; he’s just Tony, roll with it. 'Sides, he's had plenty of chances to bite you again, hasn't he? He hates that language training app. But he hasn't.” 

Bruce lifts his glasses off his nose and rubs his eyes with his sleeve, well away from his gloved hands. “Fine.” 

Their conversation goes back to practicalities and now, Tony’s got the mask on his face for every breath, his eyes blown wide underneath a confused frown. Steve nuzzles against the back of Tony’s ear and --the crafty little shit-- Tony looks away from the docs just as they unwrap a tiny scalpel and one of those huge needles onto a sterile cart.

Tony takes one look at Steve’s mussed hair and snorts. Soon, he looks more relaxed and slurs one of the sounds he can reliably produce; a long, rolling rrrrr noise. 

Then they bring the tools over. 

“Tony, I need you to lie flat at the rail, please,” Hank asks and JARVIS translates. Tony gets it, though he doesn't like being flat on his back, and makes sure they all know it. The disinfectant is iodine-based this time, no alcohol, and the local anaesthetic is a tiny syrette with a hair-thin needle. Easy peasy, right? 

Hank has the skin near the knot of scar tissue numbed in no time at all; Tony spends the whole time squinting up at Steve like he swore at someone’s mother.

When the really big needle lines up, though, it’s a different story. Steve holds Tony down with both hands and a knee, and the knuckles of Tony's free hand go white on the sheets. He takes such deep breaths of the sedative, though, that his fingers go slack again and his eyes roll back in his head.

Hank doesn’t wait around; he cuts into the numbed scar with a practiced single gesture, then swaps the scalpel for the needle Bruce is holding ready. The needle goes in and clicks against something metallic underneath.

“JARVIS, live scan now.” 

A bluish-red laser scans across Tony’s chest and Clint squints against the momentary illusion that he can see _through_ skin to the bone and metal underneath. A hologram showing the needle pops up and Hank nods to himself, pushing steadily until the entire glossy white catheter disappears. Clint has to look away then, because he pulls the guide rod out and blood spills over Tony’s chest, until Bruce hands over the locked dialysis tubes and a wad of gauze.

Steve looks determined, settled, and Tony’s still breathing the sedative with his eyes fixed on Steve’s expression. His brow is wrinkled like there's something happening he doesn't like, but his breaths are deep, his eyes only half-open.

Eventually Hank pulls a single stitch through the scalpel injury, and ties it tight to hold the tube in place. A patch over top, and it’s done; no more poking or prodding. Hank and Bruce secure the tubing to the bed rail, leaving a good bit of slack that Bruce coils up carefully, and then they hook Tony up to the dialysis machine.

One clear tube fills with blood, vanishing into the machine as Hank presses buttons and sets a timer, then crawls back up the other side and back into Tony. Steve watches with a heavy frown. The returning blood contains a different and complementary sedative, and Tony's fingers fumble on the mask, losing hold of the switch. Hank carefully lifts the mask away and Tony snuffles gratefully at Steve's collarbone, his face relaxing.

He's all soft and sleepy, now. He checks out the machine with a hooded sideways glance, sure, but he's relaxed; Steve's hold shifts from pinning him down to holding him close, gathering him in, curled in a loose comma on Steve instead of lying flat. Tony's blinks get longer and longer, the tension ebbing out of his body. He buries his face in Steve's neck, hand open and loose next to his face, and doesn't stir when Bruce spreads a soft blanket over his bare back, tucking it in around their feet, or when Steve carefully straightens the red-filled tubing to make sure it stays on top and unobstructed.

Clint sits back and settles in to wait.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“...ehrrr. P--ehrrrr.” Tony snorts and chews his tongue. The sounds are so _hard_ , they feel all strange in his mouth, like there’s a short in the wiring. They want to come out, want to have meaning, but there's something in the way. “Rhuh. Dee. Rhoo dee. Mhmph.” 

Awful. Not ready yet, still in development, alpha testing failed. Tony shakes himself all over, rubs at his mouth, and sucks on the juice box Clint had thrown him instead. The tubing goes into his chest just under his collarbone. It's closed with little blue caps and taped to his skin. It hurts a little at the surface where the skin is broken, and underneath it aches in a distant sort of way. He rubs at his chest, tracing the pins where the reactor housing is inlaid to his sternum and ribs, the painless bumps and ridges of healed bone.

The first session of the machine is done; he has been told there will be three. He will test again after the second one. Stupid words.

Despite the stupid words, he likes the machine now. He’s got more...space to think. It’s not as heavy anymore, in here. Besides, he built it, and he builds things well. Though he is curious about what Bruce added, Bruce's marks on the bag inside.

Under his palm, Steve’s chest rises with a snuffle, his nose pressed against Tony’s hip. Yes. He is okay with Steve having the machine. But not yet, not until Tony is done and can keep guard properly. 

It’s dark and quiet, only a tablet with videos to keep them entertained. JARVIS wants him to sleep as much as he can.

JARVIS always wants him to sleep more. It’s normal. But. He is sleepy, and they say the badsmell, the _drug_ will go away quicker if he sleeps. Of course, people say that about everything you have to wait for. He finishes his juice with an obnoxious slorping noise and drops the box off the bed. 

Disturbed by the noise, Steve whuffs into Tony’s skin and tickles him flat with a squeak and a thump, then redistributes himself more on top of Tony than beside. Trapped-safe-squashed with musclely limbs everywhere. Mhmph. Tony bites very gently at Steve's thick soft-fuzzed forearm, just holding the skin with his teeth, just to show that he can, so Steve doesn't get any ideas, then lets go and rubs his forehead and cheek against Steve vigorously. 

Sleep here. Small room, thick walls, strong lock. JARVIS here, and Clint here, on watch; Clint still by the door, not an inch closer.

Not hiding, but not exposed. Here, wrapped in sheets and blankets and Steve.

It's acceptable.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the morning there's food, and more of the machine. Tony eyes Blue across the bed, but it's easier to offer his chest than it was yesterday. Steve crowds close behind him, and Nat --Nat, Nat, Natasha, Nat! Hah!-- watches from by the door. 

Good. She can sort out the needle if necessary. And Blue won’t so much as sneeze wrong if he knows what is good for him. Tony...remembers a time. With Nat warm and softer than usual, and a ceremonious pouring-away of foul-smelling somethings down a sink. 

She's important. In more ways than... 

Ah, he had been mean, so scared of her, and scared made him mean, and he didn’t want to be. Oh _god_ , Bruce, Bruce, babe, bear, Tony looks and _oh no, no, bad Tony_ , the hand he had bitten is all marked, shiny pink still, oh, _bad._

The tube is hooked up, tape all over, ugh, awful, and he feels the dizzy rush start. The jump and whoosh of his heart feeling strange as the clear in the pipes rushes in and the blood rushes out. Soon, it's blood rushing back in too, and that is much more comfortable. He coughs and huffs. 

“Br,” he tries, snapping his teeth shut in frustration when he can’t find the long-middle of the name. “Brrru. See,” he tries again. Bruce is looking at him, yes. You, Bruce. 

He beckons, touching his nasty, bloody tubes to keep them out of the way. Behind him, Steve humms curiously, then makes a soft ‘ah’ when Tony wriggles his hand and points at Bruce’s, pink and healing under the clear glove. 

Tony puts his best ‘sorry, sad’ eyes on, and reaches out. Bruce is wary -- he didn’t mean to bite, sorry, Bruce, so sorry -- and takes his time checking on the machine, on a bag hanging over the line back to Tony. 

Tony makes his sounds more insistent, he'll go back to sleep soon, he wants to say sorry first. “ _Brrruuse_. Nn. Ow.” 

Bruce blinks, glasses allowed to slip down, making his eyes big and wide. More and more of his words make sense, though they're too fast strung together. But Tony knows that sound, that face; Bruce doesn’t believe, isn’t sure. 

“Nn... _ooW._ ” 

He comes, stripping off the gloves now that doctor things are done, hesitantly putting his hands in Tony's reach. Smug, smug Tony. He grips the rail, and leans forward, picking up the hand he had hurt. Careful, yep. Careful, only hold the bones, not where anything is soft, might connect to the ouch. He can’t find the words, but then this is only the first day. He can say in other ways, like he's used this whole time, like he's worked out with Steve and Rhodey. He is still _learning,_ he hasn’t stopped just because he's...missing things. 

Tony lifts Bruce's hand and puts it on his arm. High, where the cleaning _bad-smell-alcohol_ had gone, just before he had been bad. Bruce understands. Eyes wide and then wry, a smile. Bruce takes his hand back, rubs the shiny-pink with his other fingers. 

Tony holds his eyes, but of course Bruce looks away. Shy, shy. Tony steals his hand again and sticks it on his own head daringly, grinning. Bruce smiles. _Finally. Yes, good._

Tony’s hair is ruffled, his head pushed away towards the pillows. Yes, yes, sleep, drugs, medicine. He's going to, now that his apology was accepted.

But first he settles against the pillows, finds a tablet and opens up the stupid games. Bruce takes the tablet, sets them up randomly, and hands it back when he tugs impatiently. 

He matches cards with determination, drags people into boxes, connects like sets with bubbles. Hah! Take SCIENCE! His machine is working. He shows Bruce triumphantly, then Nat, who grins and gives him a thumbs-up, why yes he _did_ do a good job, didn’t he? 

Behind him, Steve rumbles. Tony shows him too, and gets a very pleased wet kiss on the stubble for his trouble. Steve makes a face and rubs at his lips afterwards, hehhheeh. 

Of course, there are drugs in the blood coming back to him, which will have skewed the results. He'll have to play the stupid games again at next break. For now Tony gives up the tablet to Steve, who taps around looking for something to watch, and settles back against his chest. The drugs aren't working as fast this time, but he's still sleepy. He checks the tubes, lets Blue check the tubes, then settles in with his nose pressed against Steve’s neck to take another nap. Steve will need to go run and jump and be ridiculous after this round, but for now they're okay.

A deep sleep, a long sweet sleep. Tony is dimly aware of voices, Steve's warmth shifting and then lifting away, his weight replaced on the bed by a lighter weight no less familiar. Rhodey speaks to him softly, his hand holding Tony's hand, and lies down with his arm over Tony's shoulder.

When Tony wakes Rhodey is deep asleep beside him, and Steve is on the floor, appearing and disappearing. Ah. Doing pushups. Steve pauses, looking attentively up into Tony's face, then shrugs with a little undulation down his whole body and keeps going.

Blue is here too, relaxed in a chair down past the foot of the bed, reading a magazine with his little round glasses pushed far down his nose. The cover looks familiar; _The Economist_ , probably.

Tony watches Steve for a while. Steve moves on to a bar someone has installed in the doorframe between this room and the little bathroom, flips upside down and does situps with his knees hooked over it, his head moving in an arc in the air. Just watching is making Tony tired again.

"----- you -------?" Blue says quietly. Tony looks at him. Blue repeats, then taps at his chest; ah. Tony rubs a little, where the distant ache is, and gives his own shrug. This way is faster. Wider bore than the hand or arm.

Blue points at the machine, then marks off increments on his palm. Four-fifths done with this round, one-fifth to go.

Tony flops, whines wordlessly, turns half-over mindful of the tubes and burrows into Rhodey. "Shhh, Tony," Blue says from behind him. "Shhhhh, Tony," Rhodey says without actually waking up. 

"Shhhhhhhh," Tony says, letting it trail off into a sigh of air. 

Rhodey smells a bit like the inside of War Machine, but mostly like Rhodey, full of sleep. Tony breathes deep, but he doesn’t feel like sleeping again yet. He finds a tablet in the rumpled blankets and takes a photo of Rhodey’s open stupid relaxed sleep-face. There is an app, there, and he can draw all over Rhodey. A moustache is traditional. Then, an eyepatch with an open eye over top. Very good. He saves it.

Creative drive satisfied, he switches to a video of someone making a clock. It's pleasingly shiny, every piece polished and glossy. He drowses off between escapement and click-spring manufacture, blinking awake again as Blue caps his tubes off and the video demonstrates something new and also blue, catching the light as it rotates. 

He turns it off and rolls a thought around the back of his tongue, to see if it will turn into words. It’s a hush sound, and a... yes. 

“Rhoodee.” He prods his sleeping-buddy. Steve’s head pops up over the edge of the bed, a smudge of charcoal on his cheek where he has scratched his face. “Rhodey.” 

Rhodey groans and makes some noises that are unfairly slurred and unintelligible. Tony finds himself, arms and legs heavy and too slow to escape, wrapped up in Rhodey’s big octopus hug. He huffs and wriggles down until he can put his teeth on Rhodey’s ear and tug insistently. Not _hard_ , but over and over.

He ends up with Rhodey’s hand over his face, but he's awake, and Steve is laughing. 

Hah. 

“Ffff. Oood,” Tony pronounces carefully. 

Rhodey responds with a groan and a tummy-rumble. Soldiers and scientists, not at all hard to please.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Tony finds an unrolling hem on one of the sheets and starts shredding it, working inward from the edge, just an hour or so into his third round of treatment. It's a high thread count, so he doesn't make fast progress -- just casts unreadable glances at Hank and back to his fingers, breaking threads and unweaving them one by one. 

It's the kind of nervous tic that would make Hank think he needs activity or maybe the bathroom, but he'd taken the chance for both during his break, walking determinedly down the hall and back with a woozy rolling gait, locking himself in the bathroom with the faucet trickling for a long time and emerging with a damply clean-scrubbed face. He hadn't tried to shave or brush his hair, but his beard is sleekly combed, his new stubble long enough that it's starting to curl luxuriantly. He rubbed his cheek on Steve Rogers as he climbed back into the bed, and Hank could smell moisturizing lotion.

Like a prince casting off borrowed clothes, the old Tony Stark is most certainly working his way back.

Hanks stands up and ambles over to sit at the side of the bed. He doesn't take Tony's hands or try to stop the slow destruction of the sheet, though he sees Tony watching for that. He just sits, and pays attention. 

The shredded fibers, now fine thread again, go into a neat pile, all aligned in one direction, wrapped around Tony's fingers and then squashed flat into a skein. When he reaches the far hem, he picks the thread he’s working on off with a pop, and winds it around his fingers too. Into the pile it goes. 

“Are you,” Hank uses gestures to help, though he isn’t sure Tony needs them right now, pointing at Tony for the ‘you’ and opening his palms sideways for the question, “--bored?” 

Tony snorts and abruptly brushes his hands of the task, sending neat fibers into a flurry all the way to the floor. They half hold together in a bundle but the loops aren’t lined up anymore, and Hank experiences an empathetic moment of disappointment.

He looks back up, only to see Tony looking back with veiled assessment. 

He hadn’t been capable of controlling his face like this twelve hours ago; it's disconcerting to no longer be able to read his emotions. Without words or the naked expression of his likes and dislikes, it will be difficult to gauge his consent.

It all comes down to whether they trust Tony to tell them, he supposes -- give them enough information about his internal state, that chaotic and varied place, that they can understand what Tony wants. And whether Tony himself can tell what he wants. Always that.

Hank waits his friend and colleague out. 

Tony's fingers twitch on the fabric he’s no longer destroying, then dart to the tablet that’s become a permanent fixture in his vicinity. But no symbols appear, or any of his favorite entertainments. 

Aborted gestures, a controlled expression, and a combed beard. Hank sighs and smiles, pushing his glasses back up his nose with a knuckle. The treatment is working; Tony is putting his walls back up. It grates, but he needs them, needs to control what he shows to the world, needs his extensive arsenal of flash and distraction and deflection back. God knows, they _all_ know that putting Tony in the wild without his defensive strategies would be disastrous. 

Steve, not so much; his calm, solid demeanor doesn’t need elaborate cognitive structures, it was built on a stable foundation. Though, Hank would love to see him at a bar like this, academically speaking. He feels confident that Steve would sniff out the misogynists and racists from across the room and have them out the door in no time at all. 

Finally, Tony laboriously types out a message in ideographs and emoticons. 

He starts with the black-haired, goateed 'Tony' icon that JARVIS had made. Interesting. Tony has used the icons for other Avengers, but never the one for himself before. It's followed by an assortment of red 'X' and caution and no-go symbols, and a sick or scared face. Then a wolf's head. Hank casts a quick glance up, but Tony is concentrating on his next line.

The Tony-icon and the wolf again. The sick or scared face, and a new one, an angry face. A jumble of all the default Avenger symbols, with only the Captain America shield missing. 

Tony sits back, done, and scrutinizes Hank, who has a suspicion, but with the semiotic limits of communicating in icons -- he shrugs and opens his hands, shaking his head apologetically. _I have no idea what you're asking._

Tony gives up on the tablet and thumps himself on the chest. 

Hank manages to stop himself just in time; Tony hasn’t struck the reactor or the IV line. He means himself, emphatically. He makes claws next, and a silent caricature snarl, then points to Hank and negates his next gesture, which is a fearful cowering. The questioning spread of his hands is frustrated, vulnerable. 

He has very large eyes when he is imploring. 

Hanks sits back and considers the sequence carefully. It’s a ‘why’, certainly, ‘why’ and ‘fear’ and ‘not’ in that last phrase, and a reference to his feral behavior. 

Hank carefully puts his hand out, claws on full display but palm up and soft. His palms are puffy and leathery, for grip, but soft and uncallused from science work. He wears gloves when he trains in the Danger Room -- but he keeps his claws large, and hooked. They have their uses.

“We all have our moments, Tony.” 

He lifts Tony’s hand with the back of his other claws, and puts their palms together. Tony isn’t afraid of him now, has even accepted food from him, and he flexes his fingers against the squishy pads, watching like Hank has in the past, the way the paw-like skin gives to the shape of your fingers. 

Tony flexes his other hand and says, very precisely, “Rrrrr.”

Hank grins. “Rrrr.”

Tony huffs like Hank is a hopeless case and folds his shoulder in, to shove at Hank’s chest. If he wasn’t still hooked up to the hemodialysis machine, Hank would have conceded to the request and wrestled with him. Perhaps in a few hours. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There's no one single moment that he can point to later and say _this, this was when_ ; it's too gradual and piecemeal for that. But after some almost countable number of sleeps and wakings in the new room, while there is still a bandage on his chest under his collarbone but the tubes are gone, Tony turns over, yawns, stretches, and thinks quite clearly in words, _Oh my god._

He stares at the ceiling for a while, pulls a hand out of the warm tangle of blankets and Steve, and tallies on his fingers. Somewhere between twenty and forty days since the fortress, probably. Since he'd last been aware of the passing of time as an abstract concept.

 _"Sir?"_ JARVIS asks softly from the wall speaker, and Tony feels his face make a complicated expression.

 _Yeah_ or _listening_ or _go on,_ he says with a curl of the hand still on top of the sheets, still a bit stunned. The last however-long is fundamentally different from the however-long before that, as gratingly different as a dream is from waking, though he can't yet tell which is the dream and which is real.

He's going to go out on a limb and guess that this is not his room, though. Or, not the place where he usually sleeps and wakes up; he remembers...owning the building, feeling like all of it is his-space-safe. What even is _usual,_ though? He's been here a long time. So long it doesn't smell like a hospital room anymore. So long it feels safe. And before that; borrowing big-green’s room.

But 'usual’ is before even _more_ ; he remembers...

The cool, rough solidity of sealed concrete under his fingers. The smell of solder, and the sounds of the bots going through their 'morning' sequences. He tries to name the feeling, find a word for that defined space, and ahhh, it is _workshop_.

The warm, clingy, quiet-breathing lump of Steve at his back, the bedspread dark blue and so soft, one beam of morning sun getting through the curtains. Watching it play on the rich colors that Steve chose for himself, when no one told him what he _should_ want. _Steve’s room._

His own room, with the windows always uncovered, the city shining up at him. JARVIS dimmed the glass as needed but he could always see through. Always see how wide his home was around him.

And this room; Steve is here, but no windows. A large bed, but obviously medical. Temporary. The dialysis machine, clean and deactivated with its dust covers on, rolled neatly away to lurk against the far wall. Ugh, medical. The noun, not the description, this is Medical. 

Steve makes a sleepy "Mrrph!" sound and presses up against him, aware that Tony is awake, and Tony strokes his back absently. He understands the pattern of days now; dialysis every day for three rounds, and the deep sleep that is from chemicals, then awake and food and dark, calm room, dozing until more dialysis. And Hank always somewhere near.

Hank. 

Oh god, they'd had to borrow an X-Man. 

He makes a face and kicks the blankets. Steve very efficiently pins his legs to the bed when it starts threatening cocoon integrity and Tony subsides. 

JARVIS hasn't said anything since that first question. Tony blinks and looks up at the soft darkness, then over at a tablet glowing into the sheets. He fishes it out and turns it screen side up. Instead of icons there are letters on it, big letters arranged in three bunches, filling the whole screen.

 _Tap_ , a short sound with hard edges, a feeling in his fingertips.

 _your_ , confusing. There's another word with the same sound, and it twists in and out of meaning like a snake.

 _nose_ , hmmm. This one doesn't have a sound, but it has a fingertip-feeling too.

Tony touches his face. Is that right? Hmm, shorter touches. Light little pats. Feeling pretty stubbly there, pal. Twenty to forty _days_ , yeesh, talk about an error bar.

The tablet washes to an almost solid wall of tiny letter jumbles. Tony makes a noise and sticks it back under the blankets. "No," he tries. "No no no. No. Okay?"

 _"Your eloquence is reassuring as always,"_ JARVIS says, in tones of extreme relief. _"Too much?"_

Tony pushes the tablet further away, and gestures _turn it down. Less._ Steve picks it up curiously and Tony wilts onto him, then curls and rubs his face thoroughly against Steve. It's Steve's turn to card through his hair and stroke his back absently as he holds the tablet at different angles, probably checking for all the short words he recognizes.

This feels nice. Surrounded by Steve, such a great way to wake up. The smell and warmth of Steve, and all the extra sleep, make it easy to drop back into a half-doze where there's an easy anticipatory tingle of interest in his ass and balls, a thrum of heat from his shoulders down his spine to his groin. Tony sighs and stretches, wiggling a little more against soft skin and hard muscle.

Steve drops the tablet and it bounces off Tony's shoulder, more surprising than painful. Tony startles back and looks up into Steve's blindingly delighted grin, before Steve puts it away and masters himself, vibrating just a bit with happiness and otherwise perfectly still.

Tony startles again at the touch of cool tile on one foot, and only then notices he's halfway off the bed, heart beating hard. Huh. Talk about jumpy. He very slowly draws his foot back up and kneels on the bed, ignoring how this encourages a part of him that clearly hasn't been indulged much lately.

 _I guess sex is_ not _something I do to assert control anymore_ floats up in his head, and holy shit, another clear thought in words, to go with the hunched rueful _sorry_ he gives Steve. He's been too scared to have those feelings for a long time.

Steve’s eyes shine in the low light, laughing at him. Tony finds himself laugh-growling back and tumbles forward, back into all that lovely warm physical contact. Steve vibrates right out of the blankets and Tony finds himself so thoroughly wrapped up in Steve that he can’t move. A quick wriggle confirms that Steve is still ticklish and Tony wins his freedom, but he doesn’t take advantage, just stays lying heavily on Steve’s torso.

The port on his chest is sore-ish, so he rolls just a little to take his weight off it, and this conveniently puts his face in the region of Steve’s ear. _Heh._

Steve goes still and happy when you bite him on the ear, the weirdo. _Nom, nom._ The sexy feeling of _just-woken-up-warm-steve_ is pretty much gone, but Tony likes that it was there. More exploration of that later, for sure, but for now, this is good; he doesn't want to, not now or here, not really. This is all a bit too sudden to trust. He wants...ugh, Steve has to have the blood machine first, and Tony will guard the crap out of him. Yes. 

And maybe after that, they'll find somewhere less tacky than a double-wide med bed with a vinyl mattress. Somewhere with privacy. Somewhere up high. 

Steve hums in enquiry and Tony realises he is neglecting Steve; just lying there and fiddling with his shirt. He sits up and touches their cheeks together in apology. They should get up and have breakfast, not that Tony is hungry much with the-- his mind grinds, an ache just faintly starting above his ear-- the machine. The stuff in the bag has...food in it. He grouches, words words words, so _hard_. Hard to think. He’d had it earlier, but now the words are hard to grasp again.

Steve’s more lilting rumble has the faint hints of a wordsound, a morning food sound, and what a great idea because actually Tony _is_ hungry, would you look at that. 

They slide out of bed, careful of the cold floor, and Tony pullspulls reluctant Steve through the-- ahh, medicine space. It’s shiny, Steve’s not a fan. The smells are the worst, but there is Hank near the elevator!

Hank uni-latera-ly approves of Tony eating, he is an ally. Together they will feed Steve and Steve will feed Tony and everything will be better. Hank’s hands are...great. Lots of different textures and temperatures when he pulls them both into the elevator. Tony transfers Steve to his back, wrapped around nice and safe, and investigates Hank’s hand again. Still soft. Still claws. Hairy on the back, but very fine, none of the big stiff hairs on his arms. 

“Grrrrr,” Tony says, poking at a claw.

"Later we can do manicures," Hank says. "I prefer the sparkly purple nail polish. Good morning, friends."

Tony examines his own nails and discovers to his dismay that he has _bitten_ them and they are awful. “Yes,” he says. “Not-- hawkeye. Purple.”

Hank beams at him, great big teeth not even slightly scary anymore. Hank mostly uses them to eat apples anyway. Apples! 

The elevator dings and Steve hug-lifts him around to face the door. 

Right, food. Hot food, with eggs. And fruit. _Mango._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Clint can tell there’s been a change as soon as he pours his first coffee. 

This is _Tony_ coffee, the kind only the lord of the manor can coax the machine into making. He cocks his head to peer under the sideboard and there’s Tony, with a mug clutched to his chest. Steve’s legs stick out from under the shelter in a big relaxed sprawl, and while Tony’s at least making an effort, he’s not as well hidden as Clint expected.

Tony looks up at him says, pretty distinctly; “Cunt,” and then goes beet red, sputters and repeats it as "Clint." 

“Uh, yeah, you keep working on that. G’morning.”

They’ve been eating a mango between them, and Clint makes a face at the impressive amount of juice, pulp and slime they’ve managed to get on each other. Tony is attacking it with a damp cloth, but it’s pretty much...all over. “Super soldier skills don't transfer to mango peeling, huh? Sheesh, what a mess.” 

Tony flips his cloth in what is obviously a hand-based swearword. 

Hank hums in agreement. “Be glad they only have fur on their heads; fruit puree is a _beast_.” 

It's difficult before breakfast, but Clint tries to do what is needed. “You're a bad man and should feel bad. Go home already. Back to Nantucket.” 

"Westchester." Hank grins at him and eviscerates a nectarine with one massive fang; Clint can’t look away until the stone is neatly placed next to two more on Hank’s plate. Hank keeps on making disturbing juicy noises, but Clint at least manages to go foraging for himself. 

He makes enough toast to pass some to the questing hand Steve waves at the table, and settles down with his back to Tony’s safe space. 

After breakfast, completed with no further fruit-related trauma, he leans back with his feet up on the next chair over, his coffee at his elbow, and his tablet scrolling through twitter. It’s an eclectic bunch this morning, with the usual dogs and quips mixed in with a spattering of ‘where’s cap/IM’ speculation. 

The tweet that suggests they’ve killed each other over something is neck and neck with the one that’s suggesting they’re on their honeymoon. Clint’ll give them this; they’re equally likely to do either. He didn’t ask, before all this, in the wayback when the bastards would actually tell you shit with words, whether they were going to go public. But even when they had higher language abilities, they'd failed pretty miserably at being subtle. 

A fuzzy, mussed head appears at his elbow, squinting at his tablet screen. Clint taps an image of a border collie and tilts the screen in Tony’s direction. This is met with a derisive huff and Tony’s presence vanishes again. 

“You...were tweet. Hmph,” Tony manages, somewhere back in their breakfast nest. 

“Yeah. And I showed you the best one. You wanna browse twitter, get your own tablet.”

Tony makes an unmistakable noise of frustration but Clint doesn’t look to see if he’s giving it a go. He’s busy keeping his cool instead of jumping up to cha-cha around at getting grumped at _in whole words._

Steve’s turn next, always wondering what’s caught Tony’s attention, and Clint has a minute to chill while Steve helps him scroll through dog gifs. It’s nice; Steve will lean on you like a very large, warm ton of bricks, but it’s never too heavy, or like...a pointy elbow or anything. 

"Cats," Steve mutters. "Cats! Kittens! Cats!"

"Those are dogs, buddy."

"Pah," Steve says eloquently.

Clint doesn’t watch, but Tony’s rummaging in cupboards, picking things out and putting them back. It’s not weird -- he just doesn’t know what to eat -- but he’s got his back to them, which _is_. Hank looks somewhere between pleased and insufferably smug, and Steve rolls his eyes at them both, like they're only just now catching up.

Eventually, Tony settles on a dried fruit and corn flakes cereal, which he pours into a deep bowl and goes back under the counter. 

“You want milk with that, Tony?” Clint asks, and the quiet hissy grumble he gets is clearly negative, but not wordy. 

Steve manages to click on the ‘kittens’ tag while Clint’s distracted and they have a brief tussle before settling on baby otters, which satisfy them both. His notification tray keeps popping up headlines, and it’s anyone’s guess whether Steve can read them that quickly, but the papers are picking up the speculation about his whereabouts. They’re trending pretty hard, he’s not surprised.

The 'recuperation' cover story was thin to begin with, and the cockroach attack had gotten people’s attention, what with IM spotted carrying Cap to the party and the three to five downtown buildings still cordoned off, likely to be condemned. Tony would usually be right in the middle of that spouting reconstruction plans, and Steve would usually be lurking in the background volunteering for things.

Clint doesn’t click on any of the notifications though. ‘S not his job to keep tabs, and the otters are pretty amazing. 

Tony’s bowl reappears, sans dried fruit. Steve perks up and takes it, adding milk like a civilized human being and then eating with a serving spoon. Close enough. 

“Barton, do we have a crafts store in the building?” Hank asks, drawing Clint’s attention for the first time since coffee. He looks pretty intent on the mom-and-dad under the table show, though technically Steve is sitting on top of the counter. 

Tony’s untying his laces, for unfathomable reasons. He’s been doing that a lot. Steve may actually be wearing shoes for this sole reason. 

“Sure, big’n’blue, Tony has enough mechano to build a lunar lander, and Steve’s got literally anything you can think of for doing fine art.” 

“I think a little art therapy may help today, something manual and...not on a screen. They’ve rather had enough.” 

Clint’s eyebrows go up. They’d been confined, ish, to the treatment room for a lot of the past week to facilitate the whole sleeping-cure aspect. Tony’s done with the invasive side now; he still needs that sleep, but Clint isn’t going to contradict Hank. Not if he’s gonna get to see Tony fingerpainting all over...possibly everything. 

“I’ll get out Steve’s visiting-the-kids stuff, then. Paint and big paper and stuff.” 

“Perfect.” 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The sunken living room is covered with a big, big sheet. Tony pokes at its edges, and they’re tucked in over the carpet like it’s going to get dusty in here. But, then he sees the paints and _oh_ , Steve’s going to be making a mess, probably. Or at least, Hank thinks he will. 

But there is nothing really missing from Steve except words, Tony thinks; there will be no mess. Well. Unless Tony makes some. Temptation, temptation. Steve all over with paint is a _good sight._

He immediately blushes red and scoots behind the couch; ahaha, noooo. Nope. This feeling he has not felt since Before and it is terrible and makes him want to laugh nervously, and he thinks it’s called ‘oh god no don’t look at me.’ _Embarrassment._ Treacherous warm underwear feelings. 

Terrible! The worst! 

He re-emerges later, calm again, and Steve is unfortunately still terrible. All turning his head this way and that, quick impressionistic brush strokes, and the morning sunlight streaming over his shoulder to light up his blue-and-cream picture. It’s only of Hank, but the picture is wonderful and free and calming. 

Hank himself is calm and loose and okay to look at, draped over the cream couch like that, belly to the sun, but Steve’s picture is better.

It’s like a word, an idea. All squished into shape on the paper. 

Tony bumps against Steve’s back and clicky-beeps good feelings, then goes for words:

“Blue-- _nice_. Warm, soft.” 

He tries to think how to say _the reflected light._ Semi-transparent outer layers of each hair acting as fine gratings, phase shift, iridescence. 

Steve humms back at him, and turns with a smile so big it squeezes his eyes most of the way closed. He cheats at the words, and uses Dummy’s [rising-tone -..--..-. --- beep] to say ‘play with me’. Which is not quite right, art is not play, not for Steve, it’s heart and soul deep, seeing into people in a way that ooh boy can make you need to run and hide and put the painting in your wardrobe. 

But _Tony_ will be playing; he’s not...that perceptive. He takes some paint and a rigid-paper-fabric thing on a frame. Blue, and pale green-white, mixed up together so it is not quite uniform, and he runs the edge of a ruler through it. He needs a very straight line. Tap, against the paper-- hah! Canvas, it’s a canvas. 

He taps the straight edge against the canvas, right across, square, and then again at thirty, ninety, yeah. Tiny arrows on the ends of the lines, he needs a tiny tiny brush... Steve holds one out, clean and wet from the water pot. 

“T-t-tanks. _Th_ anks.” 

Next, fine, fine lines of uneven-colour, even thickness. Gravity increasing with approach to point (5,5) Earth. Plot, plot carefully, compensate for perspective using thirty degree recession. Simple, elegant and nice colours. 

His hand that held the tiny brush aches, once he’s done, and Steve’s picture has become the kind of refined lovely that takes your breath away. Tony feels very satisfied. He rarely works in this media, but it’s an _important_ graph and that makes it satisfying to look at, even if a computer would have been better at keeping the lines in the right places. He wipes the paint off his hands on Steve’s brush towel.

His back is kind of tired, so he returns his paintbrush to the cup and goes all soft all over, staying where he lands on the padded floor. Steve is done with his painting too, and doing that idle fussing with paint that means he wants to paint _more_ but _this_ one is finished. Tony pats him on the back of a big shoulder in commiseration and rolls around the coffee table and into the sunbeam with Hank. 

There is a rustle-rummage behind and Steve gets out a pad of big rough paper and some pencils. There will be shavings everywhere; maybe that counts as making a mess after all. Tony doesn’t worry about posing; Steve can do _moving_ like things will get up right off the page. He sits up and edges toward Hank instead. 

There was a thing they did, before Tony recognised him and his excellent hands, and Tony would like to do it some more, now that he has no holes in him. Now that it would be _fun_. A nudge and a tug wakes Hank out of his not-quite-asleep basking and gets him a rumbled question. Tony points at the padded floor and mimes claw hands with a ‘rawr’ noise.

“Wrestle?” Hank says, and _ahha!_

“Yes.” 

“I would love to, my dear.” And Hank slouches off the couch with the flexibility of a rainforest critter. He _flows_. 

Tony crashes into him gently, a rolling flop that doesn’t press on any tender places. Hank is _excellent_ and makes faux-distressed noises and ineffectual flailing. Then, when Tony has flopped off the other side of him, returns the favor and applies much weight to Tony’s legs and long arms over his chest. This is an opportunity; Tony also flails and wriggles without real intention to get away, then slots his fingers together with Hank’s. The pads are very soft between his fingers, and his big cat claws are so careful, even when they push against each other. 

Hank has a big grin, and that makes Tony happy in a quiet, warm way. Also, the sun, and sun-warmed Hank, feel nice on his legs. 

A big heave and Hank is pushed back and up onto his knees, and Tony can feel a burn in his biceps that is very satisfying. It reminds him of...oho, of Steve and the gym. A memory! Those are so useful. 

With it comes a set of numbers that mean _angle_ and _turning moment_ and he twists so Hank tumbles to the floor and lands on his shoulder and back, though not too fast. Tony is not capable of ‘too fast for Hank’ anyway because Hank is actually a cat. 

He still has one paw in his grip, and pins it against his chest and between his knees, with his feet on Hank’s shoulder. It’s a strong grip; strong enough to hold his weight when Hank plants his feet, settles his shoulders into the carpet and straight-arm lifts Tony off the ground. 

He only lets go out of shock, and Hank redirects his weight so that Tony rolls backward instead of dropping down onto Hank's big furry face. Tony sprawls where he lands, panting. 

“Impressed.” 

“I’m glad you like it. Again?” 

“No. Enough.” 

“More floor work? That would have been a good arm bar, if I were not, and I quote; ‘quite ridiculous’.”

“Yes. Feels warm, muscles,” Tony manages. Words are awful still, but he gets the feeling that he makes himself understood when Hank pops up onto all fours and ambles his way. They collide with a slow thump, meaty parts of their shoulders against each other, and push. It’s mostly thighs and back, which are the strongest muscles anyway, and Tony feels the nice warm all through the big muscles.

Then, Hank gives in and lets himself get bowled over; for Tony, this means being able to lift him up onto his knees, where he is unstable, and then over onto his back. He realises his mistake when Hank suddenly has four limbs with opposable thumbs to wrestle with.

Soon he is wrist and ankle restrained, his face in a puff of blue fur. Then a big leg pins his knees also, and _pah_ he has lost, in the most comfy position it is possible to lose in. He relaxes, regains use of his hands, thank you, Hank, and rubs his cheek against the fuzz. 

“Soft. Very excellent.” 

“Thank you. Are you sleepy, Tony?”

“Yes. No?” It’s not quite the right word, though he doesn’t want to move ever again. His eyes are only closed because of the fur and sun, he’s actually quite awake feeling.

“Relaxed, then. I will wrestle with you any time, you're quite clever in your use of my weight.” 

Ah, this feeling he knows; he’s smug. It feels good to be told he is good. 

There is much scribbling going on in Steve’s direction; then, as they lie in their cozy pile, the sound of the pencil sharpener. Soon Tony picks up the quiet hums and clicks Steve makes while he’s working. 

There’s some confusion over these sounds; they are incredibly familiar but he knows they are new, too. Some sound like Dummy, and make nearly whole emotion-phrases, and some are native Steve programming. Why would they be new?

He ponders, and listens, and decides that Steve did not make these noises before they were nasty-dank-AIM smell _drugged_. He likes them, though, and wonders if they’ll go away after Steve gets treated, like Tony’s mistrust of team members. The two things are very different though; Tony did not like feeling scared and made effort to re-learn those faces, but these are calm, happy noises that hurt no one. 

A big hand lands on his back and starts rubbing, which leaves Tony free to snuggle in with Hank better; there is a distant feeling that he doesn’t want anyone to walk in on them like this. But he isn’t sure why. And he’s stubborn, and he's learned to feel safe here, so he will behave like it. 

Eventually, the light having moved by whole inches on his face, Steve makes [stopping.done.success] clicks and puts the pencils down. Tony and Hank untangle themselves and approach with caution. Steve looks uncertain, but bites his lip and hunches his shoulders and shows them anyway. 

It is mid-wrestle, pencil lines swooshing off the page as Tony bowls Hank over, bright grins visible and leaving movement-trails as white flashes in the smudges of pencil shading.They look free and loose and warm with sunlight. Steve is amazing. 

For his excellent work, Tony gives him a smooch, right on his little shyness wrinkles. They vanish. 

“Good, Steve. Lots of... move-ment.” 

Steve nods; his understanding is better than Tony’s speaking still, though Tony’s getting back more words all the time. “Keep. Bedroom?” 

Tony nods. They will put this one up with the others. 

“I would love a copy, Steve,” Hank adds. “If you do that sort of thing.” 

“Yes!” Steve says, already up and headed for the smart table they use for gaming. It scans good copies, more data than the best printer can manage even. Hank will have a nice copy. 

Steve, however, is soon distracted by the painting tools and applying abstract shades of Hank-blue and the black and gold of Tony’s shirt. He looks...content. Interested, engaged. 

Tony settles back into the couch with his head on a nicely soft cushion and watches until Hank makes an ‘excuse me’ noise. 

“Can we start his treatment now, Tony? Do you feel safe enough?” 

Tony has embarrassing memories of strident, anti-needle hissing, and feels his face heat. “Safe. Clint, Nat, Hank. Rhodey. Yeah. I recognise...enough. Try not to f-freak.”

“You don’t have to be with him, if it stirs up your instincts too much. Or you can come in once the line is placed to sit with him.” 

“No. That would be worse. I trust... _my machine_. It’s the--” he huffs when the right word won’t come, then finds it again. “ _Immobilisation_. Steve can't. Look after Steve.” Tony makes a wry face and Hank nods solemnly even while his ears pin back in stifled hilarity, an expression he makes often.

They sit on the floor with their backs against the couch and watch Steve save and print, the image splashed on the far wall by a projector. The print will come out downstairs; Dummy will bring it up, later. 

“Steve,” Hank calls. “I need to speak to you about your treatment.” 

Steve comes over without the kind of apprehension Tony expects; apparently this is fine. Hmph. He even offers his arm symbolically. 

“We can start this evening, after food, if you like?” 

“Yes?" Steve says, nodding, and drapes his arm over Tony. "Dinner, long sleep, machine.” (Tony only bristles a little at this unprecedented string of words. Overachiever.)

"Ah, tomorrow would be better then."

Steve nods.

Fine. They’ll have a real dinner, in a real bed, and Tony can plot out how long Steve’ll have to see his own blood in the tubes. He grabs the wrist Steve had offered for the needles and pulls him around with it; they are going Up this time. Hulk can have his room back, Tony doesn’t need it any more; yes, yes, very grateful, but he wants to rub his face on his own sheets, and have his own bathroom. 

But first, kitchen. They leave Bluehank behind, since it’s not dinner time yet, and Steve trails after him; yes, good. Tony fills a box in Steve’s arms with food that is easy and delicious and appealing, and then has to pull him away from taking the stairs. He likes to jump the whole way and Tony is too old for that by about ten years and a dose of super-serum. 

They are taking the elevator.

...Steve looks at him with indulgence in the mirrored door, which frankly is just rude. Tony is The Boss now, he has had his treatment; his head is clear, for the most part. Steve is still...all that. Tony does the mental equivalent of gesturing at all of him; the loose dancer's posture, the way his mouth gapes open slightly on his grin. The very feral look in his eyes. 

Tony points in his face.

“Stop.” 

Steve’s grin widens. “What?” 

“Ohhh, you don’t fool me. Nope. You're trouble.” 

Steve shuffles him into the back corner of the elevator. “ _Yep.”_ His whole body is alight with mischief, spilling over like he can't help it. He snuffles Tony's neck, from his shoulder up under his ear, then opens his mouth and places a delicate, precise nip on the tendon.

Tony shudders a little, and turns his head. _More._ There's that warm feeling again, much more sure of itself this time, not a thin shell over panic anymore. He's standing on bedrock now, finally standing on something solid the way he remembers doing every day, and it's such a relief.

Steve thoughtfully licks the spot he nipped and Tony snorts and pulls him forward by the back of the head, making any further nipping moot by smushing Steve’s face into his neck. 

“You’re lovely.” 

Steve huffs and mumbles, “Love you.” 

Tony’s chest squeezes and for a second it feels like panic, then washes away again. “Yeah. I...Love you too.” 

Steve snuffles him aggressively and they stay locked together while the elevator goes up, up, and they both yawn to pop their ears. Finally it opens and here they are on Tony's floor, and all the city is outside, casting its light on the ceiling.

They haven’t been up here at all; the hulk room felt much more secure to them, and in all honesty, Tony still feels like that giant enclosed space is the Place to Be. But it’s also a public, monitored space, and the bits of Tony that have finally woken up aren’t a big fan of that now. 

JARVIS has eyes and ears on his floor, of course, but that’s never felt like being monitored in the way the hulk room does. JARVIS is an old friend and Tony’s actually feeling kind of smug that he had full trust and recognition of the ceiling voice right from the start. Not to mention the occasional workshop jaunt. He’s fairly sure J hadn’t let him get up to any trouble, and he’d slept well in there with the Dummy blanket. 

Tony takes in the familiar/unfamiliar low dim shadows and shapes of his own room. With the lights off, it all fades to a drab sameness compared to the glory of a 270° arc of New York at dusk. He walks to the window and looks, something inside him unknotting a bit, coming loose. He doesn't live without windows, not happily, not for long. He should remember that better.

But at the same time, his legs stop before he gets to the glass. He doesn't like the exposure, not to the outside but to the cascade of associations it triggers in his own head. The big open windows are... Aaaah, they’re the reason he hasn’t been coming up here; an uncountable number of distant lights, each one maybe-probably a person’s window, looking up at them just like they’re looking down. The last warm-light of the sun makes it worse; the giant vista all the way to the edge of the city, full of buildings, cars, _people._

He does not _want_ to be afraid of this! He looks at it and sees humanity, movement, life, futures, actors in a changing, shifting world full of things that might happen and could be-- But it's vast. Open. His ear spins and he thumps against Steve for balance. 

Steve is, of course, there for him. A steady hunka-chunk of gorgeous solidity. Tony leans against him and tries to breathe evenly; he’s probably got this, this is...within parameters. 

When Steve reaches for the dimmer panel by the window, Tony grabs his wrist and pushes it away gently. 

“I’m okay, Steve. But thank you. You really do always have my back, huh?” 

Steve makes an affirmative humming sound and settles in with his arms around Tony’s waist and chin on his shoulder so they’re looking out together. The sunset is gorgeous, maybe more so than it strictly deserves because of how they've been retreating to the hulk room in the evenings. Above the sunset-streaked clouds, though, is something even better; the vastness of a clear sky and the piercing glimmer of a star. Just one, probably Venus, from how it's out first. Tony smiles at it; he, too, is tiny and distant-feeling today. 

Steve looks with him for a while, then prowls off, opening and closing things in the little kitchen and the ensuite. When Tony turns away from the view at last, Steve is a bright-eyed lump among lumps of rucked-up blankets on the bed.

Tony snorts at him and tosses over a tablet that he grabs from beside his favorite chair, unerringly remembering where it is in the dark. Then he pulls an empty nightstand out of the way, sets his shoulder against the headboard, grunts, and shifts the whole California king a foot closer to the wall. Steve shoots his head up, but stays where he is in bemusement as Tony repeats his push at the foot of the bed, then back up to the headboard. This would be easier without Steve _on_ the bed, but Tony doesn't mind. One more round and there, Tony's bed is flush against the wall. When Steve goes looking for the edges later, he will find them.

Steve is looking at him, not the remains of the sunset, and there's a heat and a want there that is spectacularly unmistakable. Tony shoves playfully at his shoulder and Steve rocks like a tree. That is to say, not at all. 

"JARVIS," Tony says, gravelly voiced, and gropes for the tablet. "I hope you have some icons appropriate for this situation."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tony stretches out over Steve to reach the swath of sunlight bathing the far side of the bed. Steve makes a soft ‘oof’ sound when Tony drapes back down over him, but those abs can take it, and Tony pats him gently on the face. 

He feels even clearer than he did last night and remembers the graph, about sleep and recovery. Yeah, he can calculate the hypothetical rate where Y is score improvement and X is time. He extrapolates forward and-- hah. A rate graph is easy too, simple integral. Good job brain. 

Sun-warmth diffuses into his skin and he rubs his scruffy face against the sheets. It’s good to feel safe up here with the windows clear. 

Steve puts a hand on his butt and smooths over it; Tony wriggles into it just enough to say ‘nice’. They’re clean and shiny, because they had a Good shower, and they both smell of mint and sleep and shower gel still.

“Breakfast?” Steve murmurs, patting his butt idly. 

“Yeah. Coffee and fruit?” 

“ _You,_ coffee, fruit, pfft. I... I’ _m_ having m-meat.” 

“Ohh?” Tony says, shimmying under Steve’s hand. It rises off his skin and he looks back just in time to see it land with a resounding ‘ _smack_ ’. It sounds louder than it feels, all drama and no substance. Hmph.

“Hah! Last night...in...insu...not enough?”

“It was great, Steve,” he promises, grinning and scooting ‘round for a kiss, trying not to kneel on anything important on the way. He settles between Steve’s legs and draped on his chest. “Such a gentleman.” They’d _talked_ first and everything. It’d felt surreal to painstakingly confirm and reconfirm Steve's consent, but Steve had been just as patient with that as he was with luring Tony out for food a week ago.

Nearly as patient. Patient up to a point. Steve had left no doubt of his enthusiastic consent, once _he_ was sure that Tony was sure. 

Steve snorts and gets two palmfuls of backside. He rubs soothingly this time, though Tony doubts he left so much as a handprint. “Not, super... in the mood, now. Breakfast, medical, sleep.” 

Tony raises an eyebrow and looks back at his be-groped butt. 

“Serious! You just feel good.” 

“Fine. Let’s...dress, eat. Oh hey, I can probably remember how to do bacon the good way, you wanna?” 

Steve beams and leans up to kiss the daylights right outta him. It’s nice. 

They disentangle themselves from the blankets and each other, copping various feels along the way, and get dressed in their cozy snooze-day clothes. If they’re gonna be laying around in medical, there’s no point in buttons or belts. 

It’s late; they drowsed in the sun for a while, but the kitchen to themselves only lasts as long as it takes the bacon smell to drift out into the lounge. Clint appears, and of course Steve shares the bacon, but he only takes a taste so Tony does not have to chase anyone away with the spatula. Bruce is much more useful, and adds lettuce and sliced tomato to the chopping board. There is tasty bread and voila! Sandwiches enough to keep Steve full until dinner. Bruce gets a kiss on the cheek for being a good help and then Tony has to turn away and blush all the way into his beard. 

Kissing cheeks is not his normal thank you. Ahhhahah still disinhibited, oh boy. But, he reasons with himself, he's full of trust for Bruce, so that's a win.

Bruce bumps their shoulders together and passes the mayonnaise the Tony way; it slides across the counter and smack into his hand. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

Soon, very quick, oh dear, they’re back with the machines and monitors and sterilisable walls of medical, and Steve is settled on a big bed and holding out his arm. 

It makes Tony exactly as uncomfortable as he’d expected, but he grits his teeth and clambers into the bed to wrap around Steve. It’s better once Steve is set up and Tony doesn’t have to avoid looking at the needles any more, but still. Steve is tied down now, and it’s creepyweird threatening. 

But then Blue opens the blinds to let sunshine in, and Rhodey appears with a tablet of interesting things, and it’s better. Tony _knows_ this is good for Steve, he does, and holding that over himself makes it better, too. 

Of course, when Steve arranges himself and his tubes over Tony’s entire chest, and legs, that's what makes all the difference. When he drops off to sleep, he becomes this giant, warm blanket, heavy and full of infectious peace.

“Okay, Tony?” Rhodey asks. 

Tony smiles up at him and smooths down the tuft of Steve’s hair that's tickling his nose. “Okay. Thanks.” 

“Any time. I’ve got after-action, reconstruction, or blueprints, whatcha wanna do?” 

Tony reaches out and makes the ‘I want’ gesture at the tablet. “Bear, you know I want all three.” 

Rhodey lifts the tab out of reach. “Oh, I know it. You get one. Choose.” 

“I can multitask! I made BLTs!” 

“Sure you can, but you’ve already got one task on the go, Tones, and I know you’d get frustrated as fuck if you messed up your blueprints.” 

They stare at each other for a long moment, then when Tony holds out his hand, Rhodey gives over the computer. 

“Fine. Blueprints it is. I hate it when you’re right.” 

“Yeah, pack it in, you love it.” 

He pretty much does. The blueprints are something he was working on before; it’s hard to reconnect to what he’d been intending at the time. The drug’s interference has made the intervening time feel enormous, like a giant blob he has to peer around to see what he was thinking. The wattage of the conduits in the quaternary ailerons is high, that's a challenge...not much space for proper shielding, and a short on the chassis would suck.

He points it out to Rhodey and they launch into a robust discussion of the various solutions. 

Steve seems to appreciate it anyway; he stays firmly asleep but heaves a big sigh into Tony’s stomach. 

Tony from before the dialysis had felt like he needed to protect Steve from AIM and SHIELD and Hydra. Tony-of-today knows all he needs to protect Steve from is bad dreams and feeling alone. He honestly doesn’t know what he was thinking; ferally-drugged-up Steve is exactly as much of a badass as he ever is. One day, Tony might tease him about that, heh. One day. 

But Tony, on the other hand, has about a hundred different things he needs to do to make up for lost time now that his brain is talking to itself again.

“Tee? Buddy, am I boring you?” Rhodey asks, and he’s back into the discussion like he never left because _why_ would you reduce power consumption when you could shield better instead?

XXXXXXXXX

Steve wakes up the second day after the treatment finishes and his brain feels loud, again. It'd been quiet and still since the mission and now that he's thinking in words again, he realises how nice it'd been. 

He hadn't felt so calm since arriving in the future. It's almost scary. Lying there, even with Tony heavy over his chest, he tears up. It's wrong to feel grief right now but he does. In a sudden spark, he _understands_ how Tony looks at alcohol, and risks waking him to rearrange them into a better cuddle. His chest aches distantly. 

Thoughts roll through him, and it's a strange and unfamiliar sensation now. It occurs to him that he can get Tony coffee and that the bagel shop down the road is an option again, and that he can cook his own giant breakfast because he knows how gas works now-- He's grateful, he is, but he can feel the grief and complexity and anticipation of crowds in the street as well, all at the same time. 

Having multiple emotions at once is something awful; he hadn't realised until he got a break from it. 

A giant shiver works it way up from his toes to his belly, tension ratcheting up until it's visible through the sheets. He blows it out with a giant sigh and blinks away the water in his eyes. One side drips into his ear and he turns to scrub it dry on the pillow. 

Tony, slowly surfacing, shifts his weight and starts to slide off the left side of Steve's chest; Steve rolls with it until they're tucked face to face and comfy again. 

“M’rning,” Tony manages. Steve has no illusions, Tony's going right back to sleep. He's been back at his computers while Steve's been...finalising his recovery, and that great big brain obviously takes massive amounts of energy to recalibrate.

“Recalibrate,” he repeats to himself, tapping the ‘t’ off his teeth with extra oomph. 

What he needs is a run, really. But he is Very Against going out of the tower just yet, and the stairs will probably do pretty well... but the view is dreadful. He wriggles up to one elbow and looks out east; the sun’s fierce and sharp, but there are some clouds softening it higher up; too nice to hide in the staircase. 

“We need a treadmill in here.”

“Do _not._ Excuse you.”

Steve smiles down at Tony, who has cracked an eyelid, but only one. “Good morning, beautiful.”

“Ugh, no, your eyes are red, I’m not falling for it.” 

Steve huffs at this, caught out, and hunkers back down into their blankets. “I’m fine, it was just...a second. I remembered how busy the world is, that’s all.”

Tony blinks sleepily at him, dubious, but lets him slot them back together. “So that's why you were so happy this whole time...” 

Steve shrugs, embarrassed. “Well, I _was_ with you.” 

Thwarted, Tony retreats into the blankets like a snail and Steve can pat the blanket lump. “You do make me happy, Tony. Don’t be like that.” 

Muffled, Tony replies without reappearing. “And also your trauma is the kind that goes away when you’re not paying attention.” 

Steve feels deeply conflicted about that, and scrunches his face up. “Takes more than that. It was one hell of a drug. Besides, displacement syndrome and PTSD aren’t the same, not by a long shot.” Tony only grumbles, rolling onto his back and stretching out flat. His feet emerge from the far end of the blankets, his big toe rubbing the arc of his opposite foot. 

“It’s been years, and a lot of work, but... progress.” 

Tony emerges in a flailing whirl of flying blankets. “It’s been _years_ ; you are hilarious,” he scowls. “And here I am, five years down the line from Afghanistan and I spent the month hiding under the kitchen table, great.” 

“Okay, so maybe I’ve had some help,” Steve leans in and busses Tony on the cheek, grinning sly on one side. “If hiding under the table,” he continues, steamrollering over the finger Tony raises in protest, “ _metaphorically!_ is what you need, then I will deliver food any time, also metaphorically.” 

Tony’s mouth is still doing the fish when Steve finishes, and he closes it with a huff. “That, is not how trauma works. Not at _all._ ” 

“And when have you ever let that stop you?” 

Tony has a dangerous look in his eye, but Steve holds his ground with his best, ‘I believe in you’ smile, and doesn’t notice Tony adjusting his feet until they tuck against his hip and push him right off the bed. His ass tips off the edge of the mattress and from there it’s a losing battle. The sheet he grabs onto comes with him, then his elbow sweeps half the bedside table clear and he goes down with his ankle still trapped in a wedge of fabric on the bed.

“Never. But still, Mr. Perfect, I’m allowed to be pissed that you got to be team puppy while I was a goddamn porcupine.” He doesn’t actually look particularly pissed, appearing over the edge of the bed and resting his chin on Steve’s trapped ankle. 

Steve takes a moment to stare at the ceiling, jiggling his foot under Tony, just to be obnoxious. 

“It helped, I think, that you needed me. So, thank you?” he says, not sure if that's spectacularly insulting or inappropriate or what, but feeling the sentiment anyway. 

“You’re an odd one, Steve, but you’re welcome. I’ve felt that before, did my quickest work when Pepper was all piping hot. Neck deep in PTSD but doing fine. You can stop making that face now.” 

Steve beams up at him.

“Ah, ah! Nope! That’s not an endorsement of, of-- stress-related masking strategies!” Tony leans down and viciously tweaks Steve’s pec, missing the nipple by a blessed eighth of an inch. Steve squawks indignantly, covers it with his palm and rolls away, pulling his foot out of the tangle. “Quit putting other people first, Captain Martyr,” Tony finishes. 

Steve rubs his pec, his view now of the morning east rather than the ceiling. “Yeah, I know. I’ll be good.” 

Tony pats him on the head. “Good boy, yes you are, who’s a good doggy.” 

Steve huffs in amusement. “Arf, arf.” Behind him, Tony slides off the bed and plasters himself all over Steve’s back. “You too, Tony. Okay?” 

“I... Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

Steve puts his hand over Tony's. Tony is warm and vibrating behind him, just as much of a live wire as always. But maybe a little more sure about hugs now that he's been shown, over and over, and been granted the choice every time. "They waiting for us out there?"

Tony takes a deep breath of his hair. "Yeah."

"Then let's not disappoint them, shellhead."

Steve straightens his scrub shirt, a little jealous of Tony's pajamas which fall effortlessly wrinkle free and soft, and they walk out together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a long time to finish, but sometimes that is how it goes.  
> A giant thank you to everyone who has commented and everyone who has read!  
> *HUGS OF ALL*


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